So the last time I was on this particular Rockie mountaintop I was trying to get out alive.  Blizzard. 0 degree chill factor, 40 mph winds.  Car plugged in snow bank; unmoveable.  Walked out.  Took eight hours, but hey, the backcountry skiers lost in this same storm didn’t get out for days.

This place is dangerous.   John Denver aside, these mountain meadows have wolves, big cats, bear.  And the wind.  The wind that blows cool and sweet in July will whisper way worse only weeks from now.

I hear something.  Definitely a non-manmade sound.  Or series of sounds.  Behind me.  Would feel ridiculous sitting in the cab of my truck when I can be out recording the gloriosity of Ma Nature beside a mountain stream, but these freaking bugs will not quit.  Not the most sophisticated mosquito up here, though; they try to bite the Powerbook almost as often as they bite me.

A road well-traveled is Route 126 through the Jemez Mountains above Los Alamos and Santa Fe, in July.  RVs and sport utility vehicles kick up the dust every five minutes.  But try it some mid-March eve when the snow has long buried the route, along with the few cabins ....

Stepped off with confidence that night.  Must be just a half mile or so from a cabin or camp or gas station or something.  Should be back on the road in an hour, max.  Maybe I’ll just take a drink of water now, just for the walk, and have some crackers.  I’ll be back in no time.

Trekking through endless snow on the road that degraded into path, then just to snow, unmarked.  No lights from a nearby town, house ... hell, not even any stars that night through the blinding snow and cloud cover.  Call me stupid.  Just because the sign said “Road Impassable During Winter Months”,  I’m supposed to know that in the Rockies, when they put up that kind of sign, they aren’t just addressing Brooklynites who freak at the annual two inches of new slush?  They mean it.  Regardless  if you have a  Cherokee 4Wheel Drive Yupmobile or gigando wheeled Ford pickup.  A Humvee with snow paws and military grade laser beams would not have gotten through this route last time I was here.

Yes, here’s where I stopped trying to walk to Los Alamos that night.  Having approached today from the Los Alamos side, I see now that I would have needed to walk about 25 miles to get to Los Alamos.  Even reaching the summer campsite at Fenton Lake would have taken 15 miles through deep woods and untrod or broken snow.

So I here's where I turned around.  No wonder; even in summer this road is narrow, disappearing in trees and cliffside.  Here’s where I pulled out my Swiss Army knife and grabbed a Ponderosa pine bough, to fight off the wolves quickly gathering in my mind. 

By now, the darkness was complete.  The blizzard snow has slackened, but still there's the wind.  Always the wind.

Each step was a struggle; more often than not, my foot fell through the top crust, crunching down a foot or more  for me to pull up out of, sending sounds and motion like an animal in distress, wounded, no mobility. Easy prey.  Dinner’s ready.  Come and get it!

And I saw the wolves doing just that.  I felt and saw the first fast hard, brutally violent attack, right at my jugular. The leaping suddeness, yellow eyes right on me and moving in to rip out my throat NOW!  From nowhere!  And no compromise;  I was dinner, nothing more.  Nature at her simplest; survival of the fittest.  Ma Nature presented the question to me, as She can to us all: could I be ready to deal with another of her own?  Or should I just trust in God and the natural way of things and let nature take its course ...

I gripped the Swiss Army knife harder, held it higher, at the ready.  If I’m going down, it’s not because I laid down.  Those wolves may rip me apart, but they’re gonna feel something nasty, too.  I mean, how many wars have the Swiss Army lost, right?

Now here are those big volcanic rocks, so lunar in mountaintop winter night; they look weird even on a summer Sunday afternoon .... “This is no dream.  This is really happening!”  The line from Rosemary’s Baby, as Rosemary woke up to Satan having his way ... No wonder I could’t find the door to this damn A-frame I tried to break into that night --- it’s two stories.  The first floor was buried in snow  ....

Here's the up slope I had to walk backward, the wind tunnelling into fire hose force. ..... By now, I had been hiking in the blizzard for 5 or 6 hours.    Here is where I realized Jack London was right: whatever you do, do not sit down, no matter how comforting.  Next, you drowse off, and at this temperature, you do not wake up again.

My kids got me through it.  It was here realized that if I checked out, my kids would  have to live with the knowledge some day that their dad just gave up on a mountaintop. First, the dumbass tries to drive through a blizzard that no Range-Rovered local would think of attempting. Then he quits.  Just goes to sleep.  All  he had to do was walk out, and he couldn’t do it.  I was put here to do more for them than that.

Strange feelings approaching the cabin and the nice couple who took me in that night.  Just like then, both vehicles are outside, but  no noise inside.  I remember sensing this cabin, whose porch light was the beacon pulling me on, signalling west and the way out.  I remember seeing that light and seeing it and seeing it, for hours.  To the point where it was pissing me off.  When the hell is that damn light going to attach itself to a building?  Rounding yet another bend, thinking yet again this must be the time when I reach a live building,  only to find more mountain, pine, road and snow.  And the wind.  Always the wind.  Finally deciding: forget the light.  The light is a weird mountain mirage. Do Not Go Into The Light.  It will always be there ... it is not really there ... it will never be there ... find another light ...

That was then, this is now.  

Same wood cabin, same porch, same steps I take toward some breakthrough in my life, steps I take once again, afraiid of what I might receive, but compelled to find out.

"Hi there."  This time, my jaw's not frozen shut.  The couple, Ken &  Betty, both rise, eyes wide open, then turn to their friend:  "Do you remember that guy who walked in out of the blizzard we told you about?" Friend nods.  "This is the guy!"

Turns out Ken and Betty have told the story of that night many times themselves.  Betty says that she had a very strong feeling early that evening that she should leave the porch light on, for anyone is lost in the storm.  They well know what the mountaintop weather is capable of, and take seriously their place as the first cabin just outside the wilderness area.  

We recall many moments --- starting with how difficult it had been to get Ken & Betty to answer the door.  Betty says they never actually heard any of my rings or raps, but did notice “this head float by the bedroom window”.  She then had Ken call out, well, what else would you call out to a ghostly apparition at your bedroom window at two in the morning during a blizzard:
    “May I help you?”
    “Yes, would you have anything in a size nine snowshoe?”,  I believe I responded.  We agree I did utter the words  I had so many hours to prepare:  
    “Do you have a phone I could borrow?”
Which, given the icy rigor into which my face had long since set, came out something like:
    “Do u ag uh hone I could burr?”

Betty tells me they still cannot believe I lived through that little trek.  I tell  how my kids came to my rescue, which strikes a special cord with them, since they are both teachers, as is one of their friends visting today.  Betty asks, did I have frostbite that showed later; no, I say, but realize right then maybe the blizzard had accelerated the skin cancer that had to be removed from my neck last November.  Betty also tells me she took all the sharp knives into their bedroom after inviting me to stay that night.  This I did not know, and I apologize for causing them such concern.   

Ken mentions they noticed on a recent trip to Maine how close together the towns are in the East, which we all agree might have something to do with my thinking that Los Alamos was just around the corner.  I tell of sharing the story with friends of my good friend Arch, who drove the long way down from Santa Fe and then up from Albuquerque, to pull me out and bring me home with him.  One of Arch’s friends, a pharmacist, declared that I too now have a New Mexico survival story and suggested that it might enhance my value as a potentially exciting partner at dinner parties in Santa Fe.  Garth, an experienced camper who does treks through places like Montana in winter, asked me two questions:    
    “Did you have a good pair of boots?”
    “Did you have a hat?”
Both of which I had, thank God ... Nike hiking boots and a Raiders watch cap, for those scoring at home.

I say that I had thought about bringing Kim, my ten year old daughter, but hadn’t: Garth replies, “Good thing.  Otherwise, it would have been a life-threatening experience.”  Ken roars with laughter at this, declaring “I beg to differ with him!”

Since Garth the Woodsman made his assessment of Not Potentially Life-threatening Without Child, I have wondered whether I really did overestimate the seriousness of the situation.  Had I brought Kim, survival would not have been possible via the trek out, at least not that night.  Staying in the car, we might have made it, turning the engine on periodically for heat, then walking out the next day, although getting through the night in the car, in sub-zero chill factor amid howling winds and snow would have been difficult.  Maybe very difficult ...

But the other question: would I have even attempted such a foolish crossing of impassable mountain roads, regardless of my eastern perception of how close the towns or minimal the danger, with my younger daughter in the car?  Here, in firm and unswerving answer, the Parental Gene kicks in:  No Way.  Not With My Kids.  We do not put the kids in danger.  Period.

And now, this reflective July Sunday, reunited with my rescuers, a moment I have long thought about, I finally decide:  I agree with Ken.  It was life-threatening.  And also with Betty: I’m glad I’m alive.

We all take each other's pictures and I promise to send copies, and I get them to promise to call me when they want anything computer-related, so I can demonstrate my gratitude.  It was great to see them, and I could tell they felt the same way, having had their part in this little adventure, now writing the epilogue to an action story that ended too quickly.  Once in a very great while, I actually do the right thing; coming to see Ken and Betty to properly thank them was definitely that.

Now sitting in the truck cab and not feeling ridiculous, despite the idyllic babbling brook, chirping birdies and the rest.  The mosquitoes and the noises won.  Tonight, I’ll complete my shortcut to Santa Fe, begun two and a half years ago.  I'll drive the dirt road all the way through this time, to Los Alamos, then on to Santa Fe, saving two hours from the long way down to and up from Albuquerque.

And I best move on.  On this July day when all of America is baking in 90 plus heat, the cool mountain air now turns chilly.  The light  fades  fast on this mountaintop..  Then comes the night.  And the wind.  Always the wind.