Something about the river

Great White Dispatch
Notes From Damn Near Canada
No. 17
2/10/09
10:00



For the first time in three months, I can see Minnesota ground. It's Tuesday and I'm in my office, watching a driving rain shine up the world. It's 45 degrees and very gray outside. A nice switch from -10 and very white.

From my office window, I can see Main Street, wet and new. People are hunkered down, shoulders hunched against the moist and the windy. Beyond the main drag, I see the train tracks and then the river. The Mississippi, finally, is nothing but open water. Right now a flock of ducks are fighting a heavy, snowmelt-fueled current. My building's windows are rattling with the wind. Everywhere, dirty piles of snow drool filthy water. This would be a typically miserable Ohio day, even in February. And truth be told, it's not the nicest of February days in Minnesota.

I haven't been this happy since I ran over that cat.

That was a joke, by the way. The cat, not the happy.

Being out from under winter's frostbitten thumb, even for just a little while, has nothing to do with my mood. I like the snow and looked forward to the wonders of a Minnesota winter. Hell, I hope we get a little more Arctic blast before all is said and done. No, our temporary truce with winter isn't what has me down with the warm and fuzzies. I'm not exactly sure WHAT has me in this state.

But I think it's the river.

We've been here nearly six months now,and I've kinda grown to love everything about the mighty Mississipi. I love the thousands of sailboat that speckled the surface in the waning days of summer, the packs of tourists zipping alongside it in their classic cars , the eagles perpetually soaring above, scoping the surface for a kill. I love the big-ass riverboats, those relics from another time. I love the constant presence of long-legged water birds along the shore.

There's just something liberating about this goddamn river, how it can't be stopped. Even under two feet of ice, you know the river is still chugging along, sustaining life. You can spit off a bridge, and that little bit of your DNA just might make it to the Gulf of Mexico. Makes you seem larger than life and totally insignificant all at the same time.

For over half the time we've been here, the river's been solid ice. But today, for the first time in forever, I can see it moving, alive. It might be frothy, filthy and temporary, but today, I can see the river. My river. And that will make me smile any day, especially a warm day in the winter.

Weenie Winter

Great White Dispatch
Notes From Damn Near Canada
No. 16
12:10

So the little Punxsutawney weather-rat predicted six more weeks of winter. Awesome. Nothing like dropping half a grand every month to heat your cavern because, for some archaic reason, propane is the primary form of heat energy here on the banks of the frozen Mippy Pippy. I swear. There's no easier way to keep my house warm? Hasn't someone figured out the super-benefits of smelting stray cats or something? Propane, you and this satellite internet connection are killing me. (By the way, in Minnesota, 'satellite' appears to be code for 'dial-up'.) Hooray! It's 1990!

Anyway. Six more weeks of winter. Yawn. Besides my ridonkulous heating bill, our first Minny winter has been...soft. As of Groundhog Day, it hadn't actually snowed in over three weeks, and there isn't a flake in the forecast. We've had two harsh storms all season. They were impressive, I'll admit, impressive enough to make certain mile-long roads that double as certain mile-long driveways impassable, but not so much that I rued the day we moved to this frozen tundra. I mean, it could be worse. We could be back in Ohio, where it started snowing in November and hasn't stopped yet.

Heh. It's not exactly irony, but it's pretty damn close.

No, our main obstacle this winter has been the cold. We had a few nerve-racking nights of -30 degrees. When the mercury hits neggo 30, there's always cause for concern, and I tend to lean toward the bad side of worry anyway. What if the power goes out at night? Will we freeze to death? Will the pipes freeze? Will the cars start?

Most importantly, Will my cheeks stay chapped? Seriously, they're chapped worse than Jon Bon Jovi in the Dead or Alive video. Ow.

The temps bottomed out the second week of January with a low of -39. That's 70 degrees below freezing. We didn't have a day above freezing from Christmas to February. Propane and firewood flowed like wine. Expensive, expensive wine.

So yeah, it was cold. But overall? Not too bad. Hell, last winter in Ohio was a billion times worse. Piles of wet, sloppy snow every day, fluctuating temperatures dropping the flu on everyone, roofs caving under the weight of all the slush, something like two feet of snow in January. That was much more annoying than what we've experienced here.

This is not what I expected for our first Minnesota winter. I expected days and days of impassable roads. I expected tunnels to the driveway. Hell, I expected snow days at work. As winter inches towards spring, I'm actually a little disappointed. We were warned of Alaska and we got North Carolina. Only chillier.

I realize that I've just jinxed myself for the next month (or six weeks, if Phil is to be believed). I'm sure there's a string of Albert Clippers forming now, just frosting at the bit to wipe the confident smirk off my face. I'm also sure that I'm ready. Bring it, winter. I didn't move here to see grass in January.

Mudda Futta Update

Great White Dispatch
Notes From Damn Near Canada
No. 15
1/25/09
21:45

Managed to get some decent pictures of my injured buck. Futter's his name. He showed up a few weeks ago with a bullet wound right above his rear passenger-side knee. He was limping pretty badly, and we didn't have a whole hell of a lotta hope for his chances. I mean, a three-legged deer is about as useful as that jackass who tries to sell me ShamWows all the time on TV.

Anyway, Futter kept showing up, and his wound kept getting worse. He was always picking at it, and I wondered if he was actually trying to chew the damned leg off. At one point, a big hunk of skin was just flapping around and I was pretty sure I could see some bone. He stopped putting any pressure at all on that quadrant, he was doing erratic deer-things, and it looked like he was gonna die. And then he disappeared.

This weekend, almost three weeks later, he showed up. The wound looks just as bad as it did weeks ago, but he hasn't gnawed it off or anything. Hell, he's barely even limping. Other than the gaping axe-wound in his ass-end, you'd never guess he was hurt. I have about 50 pictures of the little guy munching on some complimentary deer-corn. Not exactly a happy ending yet, but we're working on it.

Anyway, here's Futter, in all his gory. Nyuk.

Attention: Hunters

Great White Dispatch
Notes From Damn Near Canada
No. 14
1/04/09
0545

First of all, let me say that I have no problem with hunting. I mean, you won't find ME waking up at the ass crack of dawn, dressing like a traffic pylon and trudging through the freezing woods just to sit on a two-by-four plank nailed in a tree, huddled for hours at a time around a lukewarm theromos of Lipton Cup O' Soup, all for the chance to drag a 300-pound corpse two miles through a foot of snow. Thanks, but no thanks.

But if you guys want to do it? By all means. Especially if it lessens the chance that some jackass leafeater is going to plow into the side of my 1992 Chevy Blazer at two in the morning in the middle of nowhere.

However. If you do actually get a shot at a deer, if you could you hit what you're aiming at and kill it right the first time, that'd be just great.

See this guy?


Majestic, yeah? You know what makes him less majestic? The terrible limp he's packing because some yahoo in bright orange camo failed to make the kill and instead just plugged the otherwise beautiful buck right above his rear passenger-side knee. Now when he shows up in my yard for some nightly corn dinner, instead of marveling at his sheer beauty, I have to just wonder if he could take Joe Paterno in a footrace.

I also get visits from this fella:


He's a little less majestic than the first, mostly because the fist-sized exit wound in his thigh has him so gimpy, he makes Verbal Kint look like Prefontaine. He's so slow, he can't seem to chase down simple forest vegetation so he shows up ON MY PORCH begging for handouts. God damn, couldn't you have just killed the poor bastard?

I enjoy watching my deer in the evenings. The way they interact, their clumsy grace, it's nature at its best. What I don't like watching is handicapped deer. There's nothing sadder than a deer with a limp. I mean, they're already so nervous that their main defense is throwing the tail in the air. They literally wave the white flag in the face of danger. All they have is their wheels, and when you take those away, you might as well paint 'Coyote Bait' on their asses. And I have at least TWO gimpy bucks visiting my yard. Jesus F. Christ, just KILL the fuckers, would you? They'd certainly look better beheaded and mounted above your Toby Keith shot glass collection than they do hobbling around my backyard.

Like I said, I have no problem with hunting. The herd of Chevette-trashers has to be thinned, for their own sake. But either I have a serial wounder bumping around my woods, or just a bunch of untrained amateurs out there firing wildly at anything earth-toned. Neither thought gives me a whole helluva lot of comfort. It just gives me sad looking deer and the desire to strap on Kevlar kneepads every time I venture near the woods.

Social interaction 0, Me 187

Great White Dispatch
Notes From Damn Near Canada
No. 13
12:42

Social Interaction 0, Me 187

Approaching the four-month anniversary of our move to Minnesota, and I think I've broken a record. In these 16 weeks, I haven't interacted with a single person in any sort of social setting that didn't involve work, Airika or dogs. Haven't even approached the possibility of new 'friends' or even 'acquaintances'. Is this a good thing? Probably not. Turning myself into the Unabomber isn't exactly something I'm aiming for.

So while it may not be a good feat, it IS special. After all, I'd like to see any of YOU try it, what with all your 'social skills' and 'small talk abilities' and 'friendliness'. People. Who needs 'em?

I've pulled off the amazing. Just like the Detroit Lions.

And now, a fat-ass squirrel.

Good lord, it's here

Great White Dispatch
Notes From Damn Near Canada
No. 12
1619

It snowed a little bit today. And it doesn't seem to be stopping.





But at least the dogs had fun.


Tilly takes refuge.

Far beyond frozen

Great White Dispatch
Notes From Damn Near Canada
No. 11
12/18/08
1232


Urban homeless people refer to winter as The Wolf because of the remorseless way it chews you up and spits you out. Here in Minnesota, the Wolf is finally upon us.

Cold doesn't even approach describing exactly what the last few days have been like. Freezing doesn't quite get there, either. This kind of cold just bullies you, slaps you in the face and sits on your chest, reveling in the fact that there ain't a damn thing you can do about it.

Saturday afternoon, it was 47 degrees at 1pm. By 4pm, we were down to 19 degrees. By seven there were no degrees at all. To recap: We had a 47-degree temperature drop in six hours. It was amazing. I literally watched as the mercury fell. It was so cold these last few days that today's miraculous heatwave, a jump to the sweltering 12 degrees, felt like one of those random 45-degree days in Ohio in February. Running errands this afternoon, I left my coat unzipped. Too sweaty. Of course, the temp seems to be dropping again as I type, and more cold and snow is on the way.

This kind of cold plays on my mental health. Too many things go wrong in the cold. Water flash-freezes. Pipes burst. Electricity stops with no warning (like it did to us on Monday, the coldest night of the year - my birthday. Thank god for a fireplace and two warm dogs). Cars fail to start, garage doors fail to open. It's like the molecules give up and go to sleep. Not good for my mindset, wondering every morning if I have to get up and jump vehicles.

On the other hand, these frigid conditions make for some beautiful images. The entirety of the outside is nothing but crisp white beauty. The snow doesn't melt and make everything a sloppy gray, Ohio mess. The extra fluffy snow (so far) is worth the effort. Tuesday night we saw four-inches dump on us during rush hour. That kind of bulk usually makes for some gut-twisting, knuckle-whitening drives, but the snow had nothing to stick to. There was a ton of it on the roads, but it was just bouncing around. Getting out of your way, almost...polite. It was like driving through herds of tiny sheep, or stepping through a thick blanket of dry-ice smoke. Bizarre and hypnotic.

The animals have vanished, which makes me sad. Sure, the lack of deer everywhere makes for some undisturbed, picturesque landscapes, but I actually worry that they're ok. Nothing is meant to survive long in this kind of weather. Even Tilly, the biggest proponent of the outdoors I know, refuses to go out there. Dragging here by the ears to the door for a pee-break gets old. Germans, it seems, aren't big fans of the cold. Who knew?

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go give the cars a precautionary afternoon starting. Just to wake the molecules.