The Fossils are Here

Four of DH’s climbing friends are up for a long weekend of ice climbing. The oldest among them have been climbing together for more than thirty years. They call themselves the Fossils. They are out every day struggling up frozen waterfalls with ice axes, ropes, and crampons, and at night they sleep at the cabin. My only task is to keep them fed.

Yesterday morning Lucy and I served them home-grown bacon, milk, fresh fruit, and pancakes. Lucy is our family’s expert pancake flipper. In fact I left her cooking while I went out to milk.

Last night Lucy was at a friend’s house so I was manning the pizza production line by myself. (On family pizza nights it is her job to dress each pie.) But it went like a charm. I’d made three pounds of mozzarella on Friday and yesterday I’d kneaded up a big batch of dough and refrigerated it in six pizza-sized portions. All I had to do at supper time was roll out each pie, sauce it, sprinkle the cheeses, and slide it onto the hot pizza stone in the oven. Ten minutes later, voilà. Pizza time, dudes!

For dessert we had homemade Ben and Jerry’s Heath Bar Crunch ice cream, made with our cream, milk, and eggs.

This morning I’m grilling our home-grown sausage and after barn chores I will make a batch of waffles before I leave for church. The boys can reheat them as they straggle in. It is -7F this morning so they will need some fuel in their bellies.

I think I will start a big pot of beef stew for supper, and some crusty bread.

Brian

Last night we got terrible news. A dear friend of DH died in his sleep. Brian was a doctor, a kind, thoughtful, soft-spoken man with a cheerful smile. He was one of the Fossils, DH’s climbing buddies who keep in touch regularly by email and have tried to get together most years for more than three decades. At 63, Brian was the youngest. He had recently retired and moved to Colorado. His daughter is getting married in a few weeks. It is shocking.

Brian stayed with us a number of times over the years for Fossil adventures. Here’s a photo of Gary and Brian at our door during an ice-climbing weekend in 2011.

Brian and DH had exchanged emails only three days ago. The news of his death is hard to believe. It is also a brutal reminder to me to focus on what is important in life, and let the rest roll off.

Deadline

Life in the last two weeks has felt like a train rushing down the tracks. Possibly with me tied to them.

Work on the garage apartment project was desultory throughout hunting season and then in December stopped entirely for ten days. During this period O.B. would not answer his phone or return calls. I was beside myself. Had he quit? What was going on? (I realized later he had taken another job.) At the same time the loan department at the bank was suddenly — and completely unexpectedly — pessimistic. My stress level soared. I could not sleep. Had I led my family into financial disaster?

At the end of last week the bank relented. I was also finally able to reach O.B. and let him know the bank appraiser was coming today at 10 AM.

The appraisal is hugely important. It means the difference between O.B. being paid and not being paid. Like the prospect of a hanging, this has concentrated his mind wonderfully.

All this week the apartment has been a hive of activity. Painters, plumber, electrician, cabinet salesman. From the barn I’ve heard saws screaming and nail guns firing as O.B. has attacked the final punch list. For the first time in months he has arrived at 8 AM rather than 10 AM.

Meanwhile I’ve been in constant communication with the bank, cooking for the Fossils, hauling wood, decorating the house, preparing the family’s Christmas, thawing frozen water pipes, driving Lucy to Vermont for an orthodontic appointment, organizing a New Year’s Eve party, shopping for Christmas dinner, wrapping presents, buying cabinet pulls and door knobs, ordering newel posts and garage doors, and trying not to react to mistakes in the apartment project caused by the last-minute rush.

My lists go with me everywhere. Loading and unloading the dishwasher. Folding laundry. Cooking dinner. Checking my watch.

I just have to get through this last big day of work, shake hands with the appraiser, e-mail the bank the final tally of unfinished tasks, bring the animals in early, and then DH, Lucy, and I can head to the five o’clock family service for Christmas Eve.

I’m holding onto the calming image of the congregation singing “Silent Night” by candlelight.

Our Indefatigable Government Workers!

Since our blizzard ten days ago I’ve been using snowshoes down at the farm if I ever have to venture off the plowed driveway. Imagine my surprise when I snowshoed out to DH’s cabin yesterday and found someone had been there!

Yes, the census takers had toiled out through the thigh-deep drifts to make sure all residents were counted. I looked at the sign over the door that Lucy painted when she was ten — “The Fossils,” which is the nickname the gang of old climbers go by — and started to laugh. I could just picture the census notes on Mr. and Mrs. Fossil and all their little Fossil children.

However I’ve often thought to myself that the small 12×20 cabin is nicer than anything Laura Ingalls Wilder lived in until she was twelve and her family moved into the surveyor’s house in By the Shores of Silver Lake.

More recently, my friend Allen, whose father was a restless logger, grew up in the 1940s with his six brothers and sisters in a series of tiny houses (as always, click on photo to enlarge) all over the North Country. One time “Daddy” just had the house picked up and moved it with them.

Until I get our house built I’ve been comforted by the idea that if anything happened, we could all certainly squeeze into the cabin. The Fossil Family.

One in, one out

DH is home! Always a thrill to see him walk in the door with his heavy pack and a two-week beard, tanned and happy.

Lucy with her hand-made packbasket, camp 2008

He was here for breakfast before Lucy left for camp. One of the many perks of DH’s job is that our children have been given so many opportunities we could never have otherwise afforded. One of them is summer camp, seven weeks of living in a tent, running barefoot, swimming in the lake, hiking, canoeing, and singing camp songs around a bonfire. Since Lucy is on the property here I will see her from afar over the summer but I always try to play by the rules and avoid seeking her out. Independence from Mom’s managing eye seems like a side benefit I don’t want to deprive her of. Though Lucy has a managing eye all her own. While I was working last week she gathered all her gear and labeled it. All I did was fold it, pack it in her duffle, and kiss her goodbye.

DH had a wonderful time climbing in the Sierras with Mark, his best and oldest friend. They met in the 1970s in the Alps, two scruffy young Americans in Chamonix who didn’t speak French and were looking for climbing partners. Though they live on opposite ends of the country they have met every year in the three decades since to climb together. The photo (right) shows them on emerging from their first showers after climbing Denali in 1978. Once upon a time Mark nicknamed DH “Tweetie Bird,” due to his bright blond hair. Thirty years later a lot of the hair has gone and what’s left has darkened, but they’re still El Presidente and Tweetie Bird, twin pillars of a loose group of old climbing buddies that call themselves The Fossils.

DH had emailed me that one night on this trip, after a very long climb, he and Mark found themselves benighted, caught out on a ridge far from their gear. Though they are both careful climbers, they’d seriously underestimated the time needed for the route, which required roping up for at least 14 pitches. It was 28° in the high altitude, and they had no tents, sleeping bags, or food. At 10:30 PM they lit a small illegal fire to dry their socks and then spent the night sitting on their ropes with their feet in their packs, leaning together to stay warm.

cell phone photo from the summit of Lone Pine Peak at 7 PM

I mentioned this episode to Allen the next day. “You know, my husband and I have completely different interests when it comes to recreation. But we both do seem to enjoy knocking ourselves out.”

Allen gave me a long look. “One of you’s a nut, the other one’s a squirrel.”