And on the 67th day the white enemy attacked, striking in great numbers and with relentless, merciless accuracy.
For nearly an hour an alien craft hovered unseen in front of the car, unleashing a fusillade of tiny gleaming pellets.
They streaked out of the night like tracer bullets, smacking the car windscreen with staccatic fury.
Pop, pop, pop, pop …
While harmless on their own, the missiles together were potentially deadly. They came down with such rapidity it became hard to see. There were thousands of them, probably millions.
The Cobalt’s headlights strained to illuminate the road, creating a yellowish haze beneath a thick band of black, but visibility remained down to thirty feet. The sinister spaceship kept beyond the sweep of the beams.
Yes, it was easy to think of the Barrhead-Whitecourt drive this night as one of those 1980s computer games now played by middle-aged men wearing wrong way round baseball caps in a dank basement.
The windscreen was a computer, the steering wheel a joystick and the flaky white stuff were missiles. Wickedly concealed patches of ice added to the thrill and danger.
Only careful handling could defeat the enemy. To win, you had to remain on the road until your destination.
And win I did, albeit as a front seat passenger, imagining the worst throughout the tension-filled hour yet glorying in an incontrovertible fact; here was an Albertan winter at last, on the 67th day after my arrival in Barrhead.
So many dire warnings had been given, so many citations of the Farmers’ Almanac, so many predictions about the worst winter on record, that the build-up had become almost intolerable.
It was November 11, 2011 – Remembrance Day. Perhaps significant. After autumn had worked overtime preparing Canadians and naďve immigrants for ice, slush and snow, winter had grown impatient and foul-tempered, issuing a stern public reminder: I’m here, so don’t think you can sneak by me. I will strike when and where I choose. I’m in charge, so show some darn respect. Got it?
I got it. The next morning winter was everywhere, but no longer as an enemy. The alien spacecraft had vanished and while the air was filled with white, there were no missiles, only drifting flakes resembling tufts of cotton candy.
Here was Old Man Winter, a hoary, temperamental being, often spiteful, but sometimes munificent, bestowing scenes of shimmering beauty. Today he was wearing a lob-sided, hard to read smile, decorating the trees and fields with a fine vanilla topping through which branches and furrows of earthy brown could be seen like currants and gingerbread crusts.
For those starved of snow for two decades, the sight of a white-crested landscape can induce an almost child-like euphoria. It compels the naďve immigrant to go outside improperly clad, slipping and slithering in sneakers, feeling earlobes and fingertips go numb and emitting the cries of a demented owl. The crunch of snow underfoot is as exhilarating as stepping on diamonds.
Of course, the Farmers’ Almanac might be right and those who pronounce “you ain’t seen nothing yet” do so from bitter experience, so it’s probably best to tone down the euphoria and enjoy the spectacle with quiet, trembling reverence.
Winter is a dangerous beauty, I know. And the old man prone to fits of violent rage. Best show him some darn respect and buy a decent pair of boots.
