And we’re… Unprepared

I didn’t cry my last day of work.

I didn’t cry the other week – after the accident we were in – that totaled our tow vehicle.

I didn’t even cry while saying goodbye to my dad and stepmom when they flew back to England after their recent visit.

I cried today though.

Last Sunday, we left Sacramento. Towed our home up 6,000 feet in elevation.

We found a secluded spot at dusk on Forest Service land. We settled in, marveling at how quiet it was.

Hidden within the pines, we discovered a small clearing. Perfect for the rooftop solar to draw power. Rising beyond the trees stood the Sierra Nevada’s. I couldn’t wait to watch the sunrise over their snow-capped peaks.

Early the next morning, I peered out the window. It was snowing.

About 8 inches had accumulated already, blanketing everything in white.

We sat, snug on our little home as the weather outside intensified.

The wind whooshed through the pines, which swayed dramatically. We got snow flurries; as if a group just out of view was shaking a massive snow-covered blanket our direction. We were even treated to thunder and lightning.

At 5pm the skies cleared, and we headed out for a walk.

“Look,” I said, pointing to some extremely large far apart spaced tracks, close to our trailer. “That’s a mountain lion,” said Chad.

When we’d left the valley, left the sounds of sirens and traffic and people, we also left 90-degree Fahrenheit temperatures. I was almost sweating as I packed, which may have been why I brought 3 pairs of shorts.

I didn’t have snow pants, boots, snowshoes…those were all tucked away in storage.

And because it’s spring, we’d decided to postpone installing our wood burning stove.

But temps dropped into the teens overnight – it got as cold as 27 degrees inside the trailer.

We improvised, lit Air Wick candles. They provided the olfactory equivalent of the manufactured food-flavoring Isoamyl acetate, permeating the space with a thick heavy chemical attempt at lavender, but at least kept the temps above freezing inside, overnight.

Needless to say, we were unprepared.

We spent the rest of our time bundled up in all our layers. Reading, writing, going for little hikes, enjoying the overall peace.

The incredible, powerful, peace.

This morning when I peeked out the window, it was snowing again. It had been snowing a while, and about a foot more had accumulated, burying the step-stool outside the trailer door.

The only colors outside the greyish-white of the ground and sky, with a flash of green from the branches of the pines, sagging low under the weight of the snow.

As I’ve done every morning, I sat, staring out the window.

Feeling so incredibly happy and lucky that the tiny place we live affords us the luxury of being able to spend time deep in these pristine spots, waking up to these awe-inspiring views.

Chad waited patiently while I made the bed. Then said, “babe, we need to talk..”

I knew it was coming, I knew it.

I clutched my tin coffee mug in both hands, enjoying the warmth.

I watched the steam rise from the surface.

“There’s a big storm coming in, and a bunch of weather systems after that,” Chad continued.

“If we don’t get out this afternoon when we have a small break in weather, we’re not going to be able to get out for who knows how long. A foot more snow, and we won’t be able to get out the door. They’re predicting at least two more feet tonight alone.”

“I know, I’m just…This is the first time in a long time I’ve felt…”

And then I started to cry, catching us both off guard.

The idea of leaving, when I’d just started to finally feel relaxed. Like I could breathe, disconnect and reconnect, ditch that pressure in my chest, was too much.

I didn’t want to.

“We’ll be fine.” I insisted.

“But we’ve got commitments, places we need to be. If we get more snow, I’m not sure when we’ll be able to get out. I’m asking you to just think about it right now.”

So, from where I’m sitting, snug and warm in my layers and blankets, watching the snow accumulate outside, I’m more than happy to stay.

This is what it’s all about, right?

This is the adventure.

Teetering on the cusp, figuring out what we’re made of.

Unprepared enough for it to be exciting, not foolish – if it’s possible to make such a distinction. Unprepared enough to improvise if need be.

I don’t know…

What would you do?