The Orange Glove
Hello. I trust everyone is having a pleasant winter. This morning I wrote a very short story, about a page and a half, and I wanted to share it. It's about an avalanche and how one man deals with it.
The Orange Glove
S. C. Thomas
There is nothing quite like skiing down the avalanche that has moments ago swept up your friend. Nothing quite so novel as that experience. Nothing quite so liberating as realizing you can't help him anymore, and that all you can do is ski. If you have the opportunity, seize it.
I was still on top of the avalanche chute we had decided to ski, so it seemed reasonable to me to just continue down the slope and then keep on going with what was left of the expedition. That would be me. I was aware that above me there still lay thousands of suffocating pounds of snow that weren't very concerned with my being on their slope. But they didn't really concern me either. In fact, why not let them fall? It would save a whole lot of grief for me, anyway.
The avalanche snow was as hard as cement below me, and the turning was increasingly difficult the further down the chute I skied. I was nearing the bottom. The sun was behind one of the surrounding peaks, and the sky was very white. I found it difficult to figure out where the mountains of snow ended, and the clouded sky began. It was just after breakfast, and as I got further and further down I considered my hiking options for the rest of the day. Since I had been carrying almost all of our food, I decided to make myself a double lunch. I came to a stop at the end of the chute, unhooked myself from the skis, and sat down to feed myself.
And there he was, not four feet to my left. His name was Jeremy Perry (I called him "Meepee" because I found it funny). He was 19, I was 28. His entire elbow was sticking straight out of the snow, and it was waving itself about. Flailing like a salmon jumping out of a river. I stared at it for several minutes. Then I saw that several feet below him one of his ski tips was sticking up out of the snow. And there was the other one, strewn only a few feet beyond it. I put down the cheese sandwich I had started to eat, and went to examine the skis.
They were the very best, and this was their first time seeing action. They were a dark red, darker than blood, with thin blue lines streaking the top. Luckily, both skis had been thrown clear from his boots, so pulling them out of the snow was not a problem. They were fine skis. I tried them on. Yes, very fine skis. I heard the snapping of fingers, and turned back to the flapping arm. He was trying to get my attention so I could pull him out.
I took one last look at the skis, placed them by my pack, and connected my hand solidly with his. For a moment I actually pulled on his elbow. But then I released my grip. It was silly, after all, to try and save an avalanche victim by myself. The odds were against him. I stared down at the hand, and could see that it was perplexed. It shot in every direction, trying to find my hand again. I wondered if the brash, young Jeremy could feel the pressure of my standing on top of him. If he could tell as I circled his lonely arm. When I stepped here, did he feel his chest sigh under the added weight? Perhaps if I stepped here his thigh would flatten a little more.
I took another bite from my sandwich. I laughed as his arm tried to start digging itself out. Completely futile! Oh MeePee, how very typical. I pulled out my water and rushed the opening of its top so much so that it spilled its fluid all over my left glove. I swore. Looking over at the outstretched hand, I saw that it was in fact a right handed glove. Damn you, I thought. I tried to calculate where his other arm might in fact be under the snow, and grabbed the snow shovel from the pack. I might as well use it if I was going to carry it all the way out here.
Standing next to his still flailing arm I considered the options. Judging by the way the elbow was bent and the location of the skis, I dug to the right of his arm. It seemed he was practically lying flat under the snow, like he was in a bed. I dug about a foot to the right of his right arm, and quickly hit something that didn't feel like snow. Thank goodness. My left hand was beginning to get somewhat uncomfortable and chilly.
There, I could see black jacket material and I placed the shovel to the side. It was his arm, but his hand was still farther to the right. I pulled and pulled, and dug away like a dog, and more and more of his arm became visible. Ah, finally. An orange glove became visible. I smiled, and reached down to grab his hand. It grabbed mine instead, holding on intensely. My brow furrowed, and I sat there for a moment. What are you doing, MeePee? It was just like him to do something like this. I sighed, and tried to free myself from his insistent hand. I reached for the shovel.
Oh MeePee, let go I said. With no other option I took the digging end of the shovel and scraped his grip from my hand. Once again released, I thought about how I could get the glove and stop the chilliness. There was no hope for MeePee. I could not help him now. He was so stubborn, yes he was. Why would he not help me now, in my time of need here in the wilderness? I reached into my pack and slid out an ice saw.
I came back to his newly found hand, and pounced with it being none the wiser. I subdued it quickly, and forced it flat on the snow, as I took the saw into my left. Ice saws aren't very sharp I soon discovered. But still his other hand leapt about, smashing from side to side. Oh that rascal, Jeremy. I chuckled once more, and kept sawing. This was just like him. I hummed a tune that we both enjoyed and smiled. His skis still stood upright in the snow by my pack. My are they nice skis. I use them even today.
The Orange Glove
S. C. Thomas
There is nothing quite like skiing down the avalanche that has moments ago swept up your friend. Nothing quite so novel as that experience. Nothing quite so liberating as realizing you can't help him anymore, and that all you can do is ski. If you have the opportunity, seize it.
I was still on top of the avalanche chute we had decided to ski, so it seemed reasonable to me to just continue down the slope and then keep on going with what was left of the expedition. That would be me. I was aware that above me there still lay thousands of suffocating pounds of snow that weren't very concerned with my being on their slope. But they didn't really concern me either. In fact, why not let them fall? It would save a whole lot of grief for me, anyway.
The avalanche snow was as hard as cement below me, and the turning was increasingly difficult the further down the chute I skied. I was nearing the bottom. The sun was behind one of the surrounding peaks, and the sky was very white. I found it difficult to figure out where the mountains of snow ended, and the clouded sky began. It was just after breakfast, and as I got further and further down I considered my hiking options for the rest of the day. Since I had been carrying almost all of our food, I decided to make myself a double lunch. I came to a stop at the end of the chute, unhooked myself from the skis, and sat down to feed myself.
And there he was, not four feet to my left. His name was Jeremy Perry (I called him "Meepee" because I found it funny). He was 19, I was 28. His entire elbow was sticking straight out of the snow, and it was waving itself about. Flailing like a salmon jumping out of a river. I stared at it for several minutes. Then I saw that several feet below him one of his ski tips was sticking up out of the snow. And there was the other one, strewn only a few feet beyond it. I put down the cheese sandwich I had started to eat, and went to examine the skis.
They were the very best, and this was their first time seeing action. They were a dark red, darker than blood, with thin blue lines streaking the top. Luckily, both skis had been thrown clear from his boots, so pulling them out of the snow was not a problem. They were fine skis. I tried them on. Yes, very fine skis. I heard the snapping of fingers, and turned back to the flapping arm. He was trying to get my attention so I could pull him out.
I took one last look at the skis, placed them by my pack, and connected my hand solidly with his. For a moment I actually pulled on his elbow. But then I released my grip. It was silly, after all, to try and save an avalanche victim by myself. The odds were against him. I stared down at the hand, and could see that it was perplexed. It shot in every direction, trying to find my hand again. I wondered if the brash, young Jeremy could feel the pressure of my standing on top of him. If he could tell as I circled his lonely arm. When I stepped here, did he feel his chest sigh under the added weight? Perhaps if I stepped here his thigh would flatten a little more.
I took another bite from my sandwich. I laughed as his arm tried to start digging itself out. Completely futile! Oh MeePee, how very typical. I pulled out my water and rushed the opening of its top so much so that it spilled its fluid all over my left glove. I swore. Looking over at the outstretched hand, I saw that it was in fact a right handed glove. Damn you, I thought. I tried to calculate where his other arm might in fact be under the snow, and grabbed the snow shovel from the pack. I might as well use it if I was going to carry it all the way out here.
Standing next to his still flailing arm I considered the options. Judging by the way the elbow was bent and the location of the skis, I dug to the right of his arm. It seemed he was practically lying flat under the snow, like he was in a bed. I dug about a foot to the right of his right arm, and quickly hit something that didn't feel like snow. Thank goodness. My left hand was beginning to get somewhat uncomfortable and chilly.
There, I could see black jacket material and I placed the shovel to the side. It was his arm, but his hand was still farther to the right. I pulled and pulled, and dug away like a dog, and more and more of his arm became visible. Ah, finally. An orange glove became visible. I smiled, and reached down to grab his hand. It grabbed mine instead, holding on intensely. My brow furrowed, and I sat there for a moment. What are you doing, MeePee? It was just like him to do something like this. I sighed, and tried to free myself from his insistent hand. I reached for the shovel.
Oh MeePee, let go I said. With no other option I took the digging end of the shovel and scraped his grip from my hand. Once again released, I thought about how I could get the glove and stop the chilliness. There was no hope for MeePee. I could not help him now. He was so stubborn, yes he was. Why would he not help me now, in my time of need here in the wilderness? I reached into my pack and slid out an ice saw.
I came back to his newly found hand, and pounced with it being none the wiser. I subdued it quickly, and forced it flat on the snow, as I took the saw into my left. Ice saws aren't very sharp I soon discovered. But still his other hand leapt about, smashing from side to side. Oh that rascal, Jeremy. I chuckled once more, and kept sawing. This was just like him. I hummed a tune that we both enjoyed and smiled. His skis still stood upright in the snow by my pack. My are they nice skis. I use them even today.