Braided bandit on the
Sonora Pass
We drove up the mountain to find
snow. Zennen and Finn were equipped with two snow-ballers, boots, jackets, and
hoodies. The objective was to pulverize, something,……anything. The only
necessary ingredient was the solid form of the molecule dihydrogen monoxide. Only
a week past Christmas, Highway 108, the Sonora Pass, is usually caked up with
snow beginning at least in the town of Sonora or Twain Harte at approximately 4000
feet of elevation. Not this year. We drove past Jamestown, Sonora, Mi-Wuk
Village, Long Barn, Cold Springs. Still, no snow. We drove all the way past
Pinecrest Lake and into Dodge Ridge. There, we finally spotted spattering bits
of snow, along the edges of the road, and some quizzical icy concoction smeared
along the ski slopes of the resort.
We decided to go further and drive
all the way to where the road is blocked for the winter, a few miles past
Strawberry. Hmm, well, there was a bit of scattered snow but, it was mostly
spotty ice patches. There stood the road block but no snow could be seen behind
it. “Why the road block?” Finny asks. “Well, I guess, in hopes of snow,
sometime this winter.” That was my best guess and since we had already purchased
our snow pass, we were certainly going to make the best out of those five
bucks, icy patches will have to do.
“Let the Hunger games begin!” someone
cries. One snow baller emerges from the family vehicle and two boys jet into
the Manzanita for cover. Automatically, alliances are formed. Arthritic
geriatrics versus smelly arm-pitted prepubescents. Shards of ice come in close
contact with my ear. That’s it, I am going to need reinforcements. I take off
running for the family vehicle, thank my lucky stars for the single forgotten
snow baller Kathryn loaned Finn. As soon as I return to the barracks, I spot an
unfriendly, and he has his eyes fixed on my snow baller.
Why should I give up my snow baller
to a fourth grader whose agenda is to inflict pain upon me? Forget that. “Come
get it!”, I say. He attempts, but too late does he load up with a projectile.
I’ve balled up a perfect sphere of snow, the crunchy crystalline type. I clamp
down hard on the pliers and the ball tightens into the shape of a baseball. So
sorry, I think to myself, here it goes. Oh! &%*@#$$%&(!!! Whoops, I did not know my first throw would ….
Be perfect. Landed deep in his hood after a pelt to the back of his neck.
Double ouch. Finny is peeved but I have ultimately lost because it was too good
of a start, and now I am going to have to give up my snow baller. After
showering him with kisses, dusting off his neck, I surrender the snow baller.
Now, I am seriously toast.
Greg is at the bottom of a snow bank
fighting off what appears to be a herd of evil elves who have made a fort up a
snow hill behind Manzanita bushes. Zennen has formed another alliance with a
Modesto brother and sister who are happily collecting shards of ice for his
artillery in the bushes. The operation is sophisticated. They have outsourced
mining ice to third graders and they have enough zombie minions to swarm with
handfuls of ice if you try to encroach their territory.
I dart down the parking lot to a
sunny outlet. Ah hah, I find something marvelous in this exposed meadow. The sun
has been cutting away at this ice patch for a few hours and the top layer has a
thin layer of ice crystals about 2 mm in diameter. I try it out by scraping the
topcoat, perfect crunch. This is the stuff snow ball dreams are made out of. I
use the scrape, pat together, balling it, trimming it, packing it into ice
grenades. Three at a time – just like waitressing drinks, two under my armpit
and one locked and loaded in my pitching arm.
Sneak attack. On my toes, down the
parking lot, full speed. My partner is being battered on the front lines by an
onslaught of ice. There is nothing I can do for him. The herd of evil elves have
somehow cloned into an army. There are at least twenty vertically challenged
humanoids pelting ice our direction. I spot a vantage point in an opening above
the snow bank. By scaling the side of the snow barricade tearing through the
bushes I can land right upon them in their elven den. My perfect snow grenades
will launch directly upon them. But what do you think happened? A sweetly
smiling girl, assumed by us merely a bystander of this warfare barks up at the
hillside as if she had a megaphone in her hand, “RETREAT, your mom is coming up
the hill!” What the heck?!!? How could I have missed this decoy standing poised
in front of their barricade. Not only was she barking up to them but she was
equipped with two spear shaped ice bars she had been holding somewhere, now
they were darting toward my head. Hey! I duck and miss the first shard but the
second shot nails me in my upper right thigh. Ooh@#$%!!! That was no mild toss.
I limp backwards and forwards, wincing.
Now, the sneak attack is a swarm, upon
me! Zennen breaks through a nest of branches, Finn sprints at me, it all
happens too fast. I manage to use my Wonder Woman bracelet training to
intercept two balls coming at my face. Finn unloads a spinning wheel of revenge
and fury. Amazingly, I employ a high kick and pulverize his oncoming ice ball.
But, then, I look down and all I see are two yellow braids, puffy red cheeks
and blinding white teeth. She wore a purple sweater exclaiming her battle cry
“Dance!” and pink snow boots that crunched towards me. I just barely make out
the cheers of her parents sitting in fold-up chairs in the parking lot with
fists pounding the air and hysterical laughter as she pelts me with a ball of
ice, direct, to my lower lip. Bam!!!$%! What the$%@#*!!!!#!? Was that? Who’s
that little girl???{|?@!? Not even my two savage sons would pelt me at that
close of range with an ice ball in the mouth.
There seems nowhere to go. As I
spin around every direction has an outstretched fist with snow in it. Arrrrrrrrgh,
brute force is the only way. I break prickly Manzanita branches for my own
safety, sliding in between granite slabs, and leaping over boulders to the
safety of my snowy outlet. As I crouch in the snow balling up snow crystals I
ponder: “Who was that, baby Satan?”
I realize I have to supersize my operation.
Instead of three, I generate four perfect snowballs. Crunch is heard throughout
the National forest. I’m coming for them. All of them. An 80s theme song is
played in slow motion in the background as I bound 25 paces down the parking
lot. Oh goodness, that little sniper chick is STILL standing there. “Here comes
your mom! RETREAT!” her lungs release a blanket of fog as she blares her
warning horn of a voice. She takes a few paces back. “Yeah, you better retreat”,
I gargle at her and the rest of her minion team. This time, I do not hesitate
to toss an ice ball grenade at her direction. It misses. Dang.
I decide to take another route. The backside
of their operation. Around the back and between granite they are using as a
mini-cave. I bomb them with three solid snow ball pitches. I recall hitting
Finny’s pant leg, perhaps Zennen’s jacket sleeve but all of a sudden from the trench
those treacherous blinding yellow braids calmly approach me. I see her but I am
so close to my two offspring targets and too fixated on decimating them with my
last snowball. But instead, my preteen begins his semi-automatic arm full of
ice. With concentration I bat away all three snow balls. But this yellow medusa
seizes hold of my jacket. I was trying to steady my footing and was caught by
surprise that her grip could destabilize me. She pounded me again with ice,
without hesitation against my neck. Then, she actually grips my jacket and
shovels more snow down my back. My own children stood back humbled by this
elementary hooligan. I looked at her and saw her wide grin, twinkling blue eyes
and white teeth. Just like a department store doll poised for a stroller ride
through the aisles. But she is not done. She has another handful of white pain,
she smashes it into my right glass lens. Ice particulate stabs my eyebrows and
eyelids. With my glove desperately covering my neck, I stumble wearily through
the pine and Manzanita brush to the safety of my sunny meadow.
Bewildered and fuzzy by events that
had just coalesced, I stagger onto a granite boulder, and sit down to reflect
on what just happened. I come to the realization that whoever unleashed that
yellow-haired-braided-bandit on the Highway 108 snow park that sunny December
afternoon, was someone lacking all morals, compassion and empathy. I
contemplate this person, who may solely be responsible for global warming and
climate change. After several further attempts at revenge, and blows to my ego,
my husband approaches and examines my puffy lower lip and the blood dripping
down the side of my mouth. Are you OK? “Yeah, that little yellow-haired girl in
the purple jacket …………Vicious”, is all I manage to say.
