A Voice From Above: A Christmas Memory In January
Only one person fell into an ice well that day, and that was me.
I tried stepping on both snowshoes at once and buckling leather straps with my liner gloves on, but after fumbling with the elk-hide straps, I finally pulled the gloves off with my teeth. The leather had stiffened in the wind while riding on top of the car, so now they twisted backward on the bias. A couple of yanks and some nimble opposing thumb work later and I straightened up, pulling my thick moosehide mittens over my liner gloves. I stamped a couple of times to check that the 48-inch, rawhide-laced snowshoes were on securely, slipped my hands through the straps of the wide-basket poles, and was ready to hunt for that perfect, high-mountain Christmas tree.
My Dad’s stocking-capped head was bent over my eleven-year-old sister Toren’s feet, where he was helping her strap on a shorter pair of bear-paw shoes. When Dad looked up from helping Toren, his voice carried that mix of instruction and care I'd grown so used to: "Everybody ready? Remember, test your footing, watch for signs." He picked up his big, double-bit axe and camera, and we were off on our annual hunt. My brother Lisle had shuffled a trail through unbroken snow toward the pine forest, and we followed after.
The day was clear blue and cold as the Babe the Blue Ox’s nose. We were high on the eastern slope of Washington State’s Cascade Mountains. The view from the ridge was of more ridges and peaks in the increasing distance, more pines. Black basalt outcroppings stood in eye-aching contrast to the snow and sky. Far below, the silver ice thread of a river flashed in and out of view like a mirror snaking through the trees.
In this high country the pines grew individually. The first one we passed looked perfect for our front room, tall, round and redolent. It was also over twenty feet tall Dad pointed out; we needed one half that size. Fortunately, that meant wandering deeper and deeper into the landscape until the bright orange splash of our International Harvester (a kind of very large, early SUV) disappeared and the glass shard sparkle of snow surrounded us.
Lisle led us on a healthy huff uphill and around to a south slope. When we stopped for breath, Dad pointed his axe handle at the base of a big pine. “Be careful, “ he said, “The south sun melts the snow next to the tree trunk and makes a hole. Then the next snow blows over it, so you can’t see the hole.” He banged the axe on the ice rim at the base of the caramel-scented ponderosa. The ice and snow caved away, and we couldn’t see to the base of the cavern that yawned beneath the trunk. “We’re up on a variable ten to twenty foot snow pack on this side of the hill, so it’s a long way down.”
Only one person fell into an ice well that day, and that was me.
About one in the afternoon, Dad suggested we spread out across a likely looking area and shout when we found a tree. I always liked going out of sight of the others to be alone with only the sound of silvery ice bits sifting down from the big trees. I rounded the south edge of a ridge and immediately spotted the perfect tree—round and full, and short.
I shuffled closer to take a look, the massive elkhide snowshoes forcing me to swing my feet wide. Just as I opened my mouth to shout, the snow gave way beneath me with a sharp crack. The front of my snowshoes punched through first, pitching me forward. I threw my arms out but it was too late—I plunged headfirst into cold shadow. The long snowshoes caught crosswise in the narrow well, tangling in tree roots and ice. The sudden stop wrenched my legs back as my body swung down, leaving me dangling upside down in the frozen shaft, my own startled scream still echoing off the ice.
The first thing I noticed was that the tree wasn't ten feet tall, it was maybe sixty or seventy—though from this upside-down perspective, it might as well have been a hundred. Its trunk disappeared up into a distant point of daylight, like looking up from the bottom of a well—which, I realized with a shiver, was exactly what I was doing.
My terrified heart ran like a rabbit, and for a minute, it seemed like I couldn’t catch my breath. I expected to be hurt after my Alice tumble, but mostly I was just upside down in a room of blue ice with a wet tree trunk next to my cheek.
I had landed splayfooted, my heart hammering as blood rushed to my head. The ancient elkhide snowshoes were crossed above me like massive wooden scissors, their worn leather bindings creaking against the ice. The well's walls glittered in the weak sunlight filtering down, barely wider than my outstretched arms. My wool hat had slipped off, and my hair dangled in icy tendrils.
Testing each limb sent stabs of pain through my shoulders, but nothing seemed broken. The real challenge was the snowshoes—they'd wedged themselves perfectly between the tree roots and ice walls about eight feet up, leaving me suspended like a trapped bat. My breaths came out in frightened puffs of steam.
I fumbled at the buckles with trembling fingers, forced to take off my mittens despite the biting cold. The metal clasps had frozen into lumps the size of walnuts, crusted with ice. Twisting my torso upward, I reached as high as I could along my leg, my abs burning with the effort to maintain the position. My numb fingers picked at the first buckle while blood pounded in my ears. The leather fought me, stiff as iron in the cold, and each movement made the snowshoes creak ominously above.
One buckle finally gave with a sharp crack, and my right leg swung free, slamming my knee into the ice wall. I gasped, both from pain and the realization that releasing the second shoe would drop me completely. Groping blindly up my left leg, I managed to wedge my right boot into a gap between two roots. Only then did I dare to work on the second set of frozen buckles, my muscles screaming from the awkward position.
The second snowshoe was worse—the buckles nearly fused to the leather after my wild tumble. I contorted upward, abs feeling the workout, to get a better angle on the clasps. My fingertips were turning an angry red, but I couldn't stop to warm them. The frozen buckle bit into my skin as I worked it back and forth, my breath coming in sharp gasps that echoed off the ice.
A sudden crack above made me freeze. One of the wedged snowshoes had shifted, sending down a shower of ice crystals that stung my face. If they came loose before I was ready... I forced myself to work slower, even as my arms trembled from maintaining the awkward position. Finally, the last buckle surrendered with a harsh scraping sound.
For one terrifying moment, I hung suspended by just my trapped foot, the massive snowshoes still crossed above me. Gripping the root with both hands now, I braced myself and pulled my foot free. I dropped the last few feet, landing in a crouch in the deep snow at the bottom of the well, my boots sinking in up to my ankles. Heart still pounding, I looked up at the circle of pale sky above. The elkhide snowshoes remained firmly wedged between the roots and ice walls, a stark wooden X against the light. Now I had to figure out not only how to get myself out, but also how to retrieve those family heirloom snowshoes without damaging them.
Various resourceful heroine ideas came to mind. The tree trunk that had created this well ran straight up the middle, its rough bark and protruding roots offering natural handholds. Dad had taught me how to get out of an ice crevasse using a roped technique called prussixing, but I didn't have a rope. Still, I could apply the another principle he’d taught us kids called chimney climbing: brace against opposing sides while moving upward.
I pressed my back against the ice wall and set my boots on two protruding roots, facing the tree trunk. Testing my weight, I found I could shimmy upward by pushing my back hard against the ice while using hands and feet on the trunk and roots. The process of melt and freeze had created dozens of layers of rotten snow crusts that sometimes crumbled, but as long as I kept solid pressure between my back and the ice wall, I could inch my way up, reaching from root to root.
Snow sifted down from the tree looming above me, its crown high above in bright sunlight. The walls of the ice cave glowed an eerie blue, and I shivered in the shadowy cold.
I made it almost to where my snowshoes were wedged when Dad's head popped over the top. He was stretched out on his belly looking down at me. "Anybody home down there?"
"I've almost got it," I said, panting. "But the snowshoes are stuck tight up here." I was high up enough now that I could see where the well widened around the tree's lower branches. The transition would be tricky—I'd have to shift from my back-against-ice position to getting fully onto the tree trunk. Taking a deep breath, I reached up and gripped a solid branch with one hand, keeping my back pressed hard against the ice. Then, in one quick move, I pulled with my arm while pushing off with my legs, swinging my body around to hug the trunk fully. My boots scrabbled for purchase on the bark, but I had a solid grip now on both the branch and trunk.
Lisle and Toren's heads appeared over the hole. "Cool," Lisle said.
"Are you cold?" Toren asked, "Get out and come see the tree I found."
"Stay right there," Dad said. "Let's get those snowshoes loose first." He inched his big axe with its sturdy leather sheath over the edge. "Hook it around one of the frames and we'll work them free together. Don't let go of your hold on the tree."
The axe swung down within reach, and I carefully hooked it around one of the curved elkhide frames, keeping my other arm locked around the tree trunk, boots braced against roots and ice. Working together with Dad tugging gently from above, we wiggled the first snowshoe until it came free with a sudden scrape.
"Easy now," Dad said. "Get a better grip on that trunk." I pressed harder against the tree as the second snowshoe shifted above me.
The second snowshoe took longer, frozen tight where it had wedged against a root. When it finally gave way, a shower of ice crystals rained down my neck. Dad handed the axe back to Lisle, then reached down with both hands.
"Ready?" he asked.
I hugged the tree trunk with one arm and grabbed his wrist with my other hand. "Ready."
"Lisle, Toren, anchor my legs."
A final push with my boots, a strong pull from Dad, and I scrambled over the edge onto solid snow. We all lay there catching our breath for a moment, looking at the perfect dark circle my fall had created. The snowshoes lay nearby, unharmed except for a few new scratches in their ancient varnish.
"Now," Dad said, sitting up and brushing snow from his jacket, "Toren, let's go see this tree of yours and no more diving into ice wells!”
I started to buckle back into my snowshoes, my fingers still trembling slightly. "It's perfect," Toren said. "You'll see."
“It’s a long way down,” she added, taking a last admiring look at the dark well, “It’s sort of like a secret fort.”
"You're lucky you didn't break anything," Dad said, shouldering his axe and turning away from the well. He led us around the slope to where Toren's chosen tree stood waiting. It was perfect - shorter than my ice well tree, with sturdy branches spread evenly like a layer cake. The sun had warmed its needles just enough to release that sharp, sweet pine scent that meant Christmas was really coming.
Dad took a few practice swings to clear the snow from the base, then the bright blade of the axe bit into the trunk with sharp, rhythmic strokes. The tree fell with a soft whump into the crusty snow. While Dad fastened the four guide ropes, I flexed my still-trembling fingers and checked my snowshoes one more time - tight and secure.
The long tracks we left, hauling our prize back through the forest, looked like some strange creature had passed. Now, all these years later, when people ask about my childhood Christmas memories, I tell them about elkhide snowshoes nearly as long as I was tall, about ice wells hiding beneath perfect trees. I tell them about learning to climb backwards up tree trunks, about how rescue smells like pine needles and sounds like my father's voice coming from above.
Sandy! I'm sure glad the family was there to help you out. Those cold metal buckles are the worst. The sweater knitted out of that yarn will keep me merrily warm in Christmas 🎄
My dear 'Alice' Cousin, your adventures can rival Alice and friends anytime! I enjoy getting to know you through your writing and am so impressed! Too many miles (and years, I'm afraid) for us to have crossed paths more often and earlier in our lives. With my Dad being a Mountaineer, I can relate to episodes like you had in this story, because I did share a few adventures with him. Mine weren't as exciting as yours though, and I had to write to tell you how much I enjoy your Wonderland experience! And your posts on Facebook amaze me, that you are still creating and experiencing new breathtaking moments! Love you, Sandy, and wish we'd had more times together as kids, but I am a couple decades older than you and live miles apart. Take care on any new attempts to conquer the wilderness, Dear Sandy! Hugs!