Okay, I realize this is a sensational headline, but I did have that thought yesterday. Maybe there’s a future for me in the tabloid press.
I went walking in the Humber River valley in Toronto, to the tune of six miles or so. The trail was snow-covered, with little ridges of ice, water on top at times, and wet feet. In short … perfect! I didn’t mind going slow. The white world was there for me to discover.
Much of the river was open, and really roaring along. At one point I stood on a pedestrian bridge and watched the ice floes. Way upstream was a little postage stamp of ice, moving ever so gently towards me. As it neared the bridge, however, it morphed into an eight-foot long berg, and roared beneath my eyes like a runaway train. Was I ever wrong about the current placidity of nature (a thought that was proven so true an hour later).
I was testing out my new wool socks. “They’ll keep your feet warm and dry even in a rainstorm.” Well, sort of. There wasn’t any rain but lots of gooshy snow. The socks were wet but my feet were still pleasantly cool.
I sat on a few benches and contemplated life, plus how many steps I’d taken so far. By day’s end, it turned out to be 28,000. What an athlete! Above the flatlands by the river were steep slopes, leading up to fancy homes, which were showing their huge windows through the bare trees. So I’m in the middle of Toronto, not exactly a wilderness experience, but still fun to be surrounded by so much unimpeded whiteness.
I was advancing calmly along the shore, with the Humber on my right, when I came to a spot where the river had overflowed its banks. Parks personnel had posted “Do Not Enter” signs, plus a chain across the trail. I looked way to my left, and with my deep outdoorsman knowledge, saw an area of white snow that skirted the grey waterlogged surface. No sweat. I don’t need a direct path from A to B. I’m out to explore the wilds of Toronto.
My new route took me into a grove of bushes and small trees. “Just follow the white snow, Bruce.” Oh, this was fun. Soon, I was going where no man had gone before, judging by the absence of footprints. The crust of snow was hard and happily supported my weight. No more wetness or ridges of ice. Piece of cake.
Thirty steps farther, something new. My right foot went down to the snow and the mass vibrated. Like a tiny trampoline. Energy went outwards in all directions as I moved each foot. Then my right one broke through, about a foot down, and the crust collapsed around it. Same with my left one. Oh well. Just a slower passage to my glass of wine at the Old Mill Restaurant.
As I worked my way around bushes, holding on to branches, I saw that the greyness had invaded my path. I turned further from the river to keep from getting soaked and a route became clear. I even saw a picnic shelter in the distance. “No problem, Bruce. You’re in Toronto.”
And then, a step too far. My right foot broke through and I sunk down to my knee. Water flooded into my running shoe and those water-wicking wool socks had no chance. For a few seconds, I thought I was stuck. I pulled my leg up but nothing happened. Then I rolled onto my side and yanked the foot from its watery abode. Soon I was vertical again and ready to move forward. Down went my left foot to the knee, and then my right one joined in again.
And that was when this post’s title hit home. Up to my knees. Both feet soaked and numbing. Bushes to the left and right. No one around. So scared. Is this where I call it a day? It’s been a good life. Bye.
And then I snapped out of it. “It will continue to be a good life. There’s a glass of wine waiting for you less than a mile away. You have your cell phone. If you can’t extricate yourself, the Toronto Fire Department will.” > “But hypothermia will get me first.” > “Shut up and move!”
Somehow onto my side again. And somehow the crust didn’t break where my body rolled. Onto my feet, and looking around. I’d been avoiding the grey areas but could they be worse than my white breakthroughs? I grabbed a branch and stepped onto a grey patch. It held! And then the next. It held too. From bush to bush, I followed the grey. The grassy parkland was just ahead, under its white blanket. The meadow was raised up a bit. My feet were numb but my brain wasn’t. “Slowly, Bruce. Just reach for the next branch.” The crust held, time and time again, and finally the firm meadow was under my feet.
Old guy staring at me from a painting
Glass of Gewurztraminer
Most thankful soul
Ain’t life grand?