Subtle Whispers of Warmth
Photo by Beige Jones
It was the first time I had ever heard such an announcement and I felt my ears had deceived me. So I walked sideways, keeping my eyes on my luggage and the heavy winter jacket that still couldn’t keep the cold wind from penetrating my bones. I reached the counter and a forceful smile alighted on the face of a woman who looked almost as pale as the sky that had hidden the sun for many months now.
“Hello! Did you say the plane might have to turn back if it cannot get through to Aspen?” I asked quietly, lowering my head to the counter to get the full attention of this woman whose nametag read Stacey. I had also sensed that no one besides me seemed as curious about this; they all sat reading magazines, newspapers, some having loud phone conversations about what they would do when they arrived at this place called Aspen. I overheard one woman, slender and burnt by a sun that still sailed the sky somewhere else, ask the person on the other side of the phone “if they had gone for some runs on butter and milk?” I tried to imagine what going for a run on butter and milk would look like in February. Firstly, there would be the piercing attacks of the winter air and, secondly, the difficulty of balancing oneself on something so slippery. “Perhaps this is a sort of winter slang that I am unfamiliar with,” I thought to myself, as the idea of running on butter and milk sounded impossible and if possible then laborious from the melting of the butter, the mixing with the milk and pouring of the concoction on the ground. I often engage my mind with such thoughts during winter to avoid thinking of the cold outside.
“How can I help you sir?” Stacey woke me from my mental inquisitiveness and musings. She had finally stopped drumming her fingers on the keyboard of the computer and somewhat seemed satisfied. Her smile had gotten less forceful. I repeated my question.
“Yes, the plane will surely have to come back here to Denver if the weather is too bad and there is no visibility.” She leaned her head to the side and allowed her face to conjure an expression that said I should know what she was telling me, that this was common knowledge out here.
“It is my first trip to Aspen, and I am just trying to understand why planes can land here but not there. It is snowing here as well.” I grinned.
“The altitude is much higher in Aspen and so more wind and more snow.” She sighed and let her eyes pass by me to acknowledge the other customer behind me. I returned to my seat in the waiting area and put on my jacket, as the possibility of a stronger and colder wind made me feel cold in anticipation of what may lay ahead.
Going to Aspen had come about because a Kenyan friend of mine had invited me to participate in the Aspen Writers’ Foundation Winter Words. I generally knew Colorado as a colder place at this time of year, and being from the very warm West African country of Sierra Leone, my genes have a tremendous dislike for the cold weather to the point that whenever it is cold they tighten my muscles and restrict my movement to mostly indoors. I also regarded winter, since my first encounter with it many years back, as an unnatural season for human beings, particularly for me, who had tried to get used to it winter after winter. I have only succeeded in psychologically convincing myself that as long as I live in the West, winter would arrive every year and there is nothing I can do about it. As a result, my first inner response to the invitation was a “hell no,” a subtle one though. The “hell” was for the fact that accepting such an invitation meant a voluntary travel to someplace colder than New York City and therefore exposing myself to another unknown wrath of winter. My understanding of hell had been fire with some sort of burning, but after experiencing winter for the first time without a proper winter jacket, and sometimes even with one, hell now also meant winter, a time when my bones became so cold within my body that my joints felt uncomfortable, a time when I felt the flesh on my face might fall off and I am forced to walk backwards at times to avoid the needle pinching feeling of the wind on my face.
“Aspen is a wonderful place, and the women at the writers’ foundation will take good care of you. I will be there as well,” Bwai, my Kenyan friend, had told me over the phone. There was a sincere assurance in his voice that I believed, and I also thought to myself that if this Kenyan fellow could cope with the cold in Aspen, then I too shouldn’t worry too much. If anything, I counted on the fact that there would be somebody to stay inside with, have tea and discuss literature and our beloved continent, Africa. I still maintained some precaution, though, by bringing with me the winter clothing I have acquired in the quest to find something warmer every year. I have never succeeded and it always feels as if the cold wind learns new ways to find my skin.
An hour had passed and I was now on the plane to Aspen still wearing my jacket and determined to be warm at all times. As we flew closer to Aspen, the sky became paler and the powdery outpour from it became thicker. The mountains had been beautifully painted by whoever was sieving this powdery thing that reminded me of grated cassava. The sky seemed brighter, reflecting the whiteness of the mountains. The quiet and stagnant but imposing beauty of the mountain ranges had gotten hold of my eyes and summoned my mind to reveries of wanting to play in the snow. I soon awoke from such reveries as the plane abruptly shook and started a galloping descent.
At the airport, I had begun to observe that winter in this small town, I had guessed it was by the size of the airport, had a joyous and festive face, not the dull and unwelcoming look that it has in the East and Midwest, where I had spent many winters. Here everyone seemed happy that it was actually snowing a lot.
“You are just in time for some fresh snow, and skiing will be awesome!” a young man exclaimed to a friend he called “dude.” On the short drive to town, a boyish-looking man engaged me in conversation and proceeded to tell me about all the “cool” things to do in winter. I guessed that from my perplexed face he had concluded that it was my first visit. “You should try skiing or snowboarding before you leave!” the boyish-looking man suggested with a grin as he pulled to the side of the snow-covered road of a street called East Durant. I gave a smile that had no assurance that I would dare do such a thing.
Inside the apartment was my Kenyan friend who had arrived before me and had turned the heat on high enough for us to feel as though we were back home. We sat down to have tea and review our schedules, which consisted of readings, presentations, dinner engagements, and free time with suggested activities such as skiing. We looked at each other and laughed. As we sat in the quietness, we heard a loud thump outside and I walked to the window to see what it was. A man was on the ground, his face buried inside the snow, his ski equipment scattered about. His friends pulled him up, laughing and dusting the snow off his jacket. “Skiing,” I thought to myself. “That fellow could barely stand on the flat surface, and he looked like someone who had done winter activities before. Why should I try to voluntarily make myself susceptible to breaking my legs and being cold.”
“You must be careful when you walk outside; it is really slippery,” my Kenyan friend said as I settled back on the couch and resumed drinking my tea.
Later that day, I decided to take a stroll to get some fresh air. My entire being had a rejection to this, but my curiosity to see a bit of this town had gotten the better of me. Before I left the house, I made sure to sit inside for a while with my jacket on to take in the heat. Outside, I saw the shape that the fallen man had left in the snow and I took that as caution to walk slowly and keep my feet landing in the fresh snow or in the footprints that others had made. I headed toward the area I guessed was the heart of town, as a lot of people were walking in that direction with various winter equipments on their shoulders. They would get on the lift and then disappear up the mountains toward the pale sky. In the distance, others were skiing down the same hill with so much speed that I thought they wouldn’t be able to stop. I stood aside and watched these colorfully clothed beings going up and down the mountains, only revealing their faces before ascending towards the sky and after descending from the white mountain. I was busy enjoying this sight to the point that my body forgot how cold it was.
I left the area perhaps for the first time beginning to understand that it may be possible to enjoy winter. However, I was still not sure how I could. As I walked away, again following the people that had come from skiing, I saw a gathering outside a building. The people were releasing clouded air out of their mouths. Some seemed slightly surprised, others amused, and a sense of bewilderment could be heard in their whispers. I walked closer to see what was unfolding nearby. Through the glass wall was a black bear seated in a lounge chair, its head down on the table in front of it, and it looked as though it was sleeping. Somebody was saying how strange this was, as bears should be hibernating at this time of year. I thought to myself that perhaps the bear had decided that it was better to hibernate in comfort as opposed to some cold cave.
I walked back to the apartment with a strange bemused and exhilarated feeling: discovering the possibility to enjoy winter and seeing a bear.
When I went through the door, I hastily told Bwai the story of my short excursion. He laughed and said we were going skiing. We had discussed the possibility of perhaps an attempt to ski and dismissed it immediately. Now, he exclaimed we would be heading to the “slopes.” The word sounded a bit unnatural coming from him and coupled with excitement. We went to a ski store, got the proper outfit and equipment and were off to a place called Buttermilk. As soon as I heard the name, the memory of the conversation I had overheard at the Denver airport came alive within me. I thought I had heard butter and milk. We arrived and there was no butter and milk on the ground. There was snow, lots of it, and the equivalent of several villages of people skiing. Bwai and I created an involuntary spectacle as people passed us while we were readying ourselves to get on the snow.
When we finally got on the snow, we first learned how to fall mostly, but with the patience of our constantly smiling tall and lanky teacher we were on our feet and dancing to the rhythm of gravity. It was at this moment that I began to discover the joy of winter, a happiness that allowed my pores to emit warm air on my skin. The snow and the slope quieted my mind, the harsh wind became a melody, and I became a boy again, this time on another landscape, another climate but discovering yet again the simple joy of nature that can be either warm, cold, or with other nuances familiar and unfamiliar. I discovered that there is subtle warmth in the cold winter air.
