Dateline: High mountain camp, Monday, 4:30 p.m., cloudy, 20 degrees — Day 225 of full-time tiny travel
The dog and I relax in the warm and toasty Tiny. I type and she snores slightly beside me. We have just completed our second 6,000-step hike of the day, and we are not leaving camp again until tomorrow. As it stands, we are slightly snowed in because the road out of this part of the campground is still partially covered in last night’s snowfall, and I won’t risk driving on it without snow tires, snow chains, or a 4-wheel drive vehicle.
Still, I feel victorious. I’m not yet out of the woods, literally, but I believe I may have passed the snow test and moved toward eliminating the snow phobia I wrote about previously.
I didn’t ask for the snow test. I didn’t want the snow test. But when it arrived, I thought: “OK, I accept. This is the time for the snow test.”
A week ago, I arrived at my favorite campground, which happens to be at nearly 7,000-ft. elevation in the California mountains. I had been watching the weather reports for this campground since around November and I noticed there had been no snow. People who live here say some years there is snow, and some years there is no snow. I was banking on the latter when, in mid-February, I decided to come for a 3-week stay. A week into my visit, the region’s newspapers announced that winter had finally arrived and there could be snow as low as 1,500-ft. elevation. Oh great.
I already survived a 1-inch snow event, so minor that I was able to drive my vehicle out the next afternoon and go into town. The second test/event was last night and 3 to 5 inches of snowfall had been predicted, followed by a partially sunny day today and a fully sunny day tomorrow. I decided to stay and face this event to help me overcome my lifelong fear of snow.
By the time I turned in at about 11 p.m. last night, the weather forecast was for clouds but no longer made any mention of snow falling overnight. I got a warm feeling inside. It seemed the test had been cancelled! I say I am out here on the road to test myself, and yet I seem overly enthusiastic when tests are called off. The tests usually start with me eager to stretch myself, and then proceed when there is no way out. And that is what happened here.
As I awoke this morning around 6 a.m., happy in the knowledge that the snow event had been called off, I heard in the distance a racket on the main road of the campground. At first I thought it was a garbage truck, but then I slowly realized: that is the sound of the snow plow! I slid back the curtains, raised the shade, and peeked outside. Snow everywhere! That silent white stealth had indeed paid a visit.
In addition to the snow, there were sounds of giddy children running in the soft powder and sledding down slopes. When my dog and I took our first walk of the day, I had the most remarkable thought: “This is just frozen water.” The phobia seemed to be gone. I began to think logically about living in a snow area and the vehicle one might purchase to navigate it (such as a Jeep or other 4-wheel-drive vehicle). I noticed the places on the campground’s asphalt roads where the morning sun had already melted last night’s snow. I saw shady places that had turned icy. I realized that living in a snow area is doable with the right gear and the right knowledge and experience. Nothing to fear here.
Back at camp, I saw that the snow that blocked my exit from this part of the campground was melting at a pretty good clip. I thought that by tomorrow that snow will be gone and I might pack up and leave this high mountain campground, having survived the snow, cured my phobia, and passed the test. And to make life even sweeter, no more snow was predicted until Thursday, 3 days hence.
Dateline: Later that afternoon.
I was on the phone with a friend and relating how I had survived the snow event and lost my phobia.
Suddenly, without warning, without a build up, without a prediction or a forecast, snow began falling really hard! This was a cold, dry snow that had substance and sound to it, pounding all over The Tiny and the Clam and the Durango and the picnic table. I was in shock. I stared out the window. Within minutes, all the progress that had been made with snow melting on the road out of here was reversed. This part of the campground was once again covered in snowy powder. An exit the next day, with a forecast barely above freezing, was out of the question. What would I do? What would I do?
I thought this test was complete. But more was to come.