No prison can hold me; no hand or leg irons or steel locks can shackle me.  No ropes or chains can keep me from my freedom.”  Harry Houdini

We were there the day Harry Houdini
entangled himself in rusty old chains.
We wondered about the  man we would see
sink  into the cold enclosure  he disdains.

We gathered with  friends and naysayers, too,
murmured together, moved closer to know
more of the bind Harry put himself through,
yet afraid to imagine the trials  below.

When he rose from the depths, free from dire straits,
we breathed his relief as if a brother,
then we turned to go home dragging the weights
we wore to the shore and told each other

if Harry Houdini can beat the odds,
if Harry Houdini knows a few tricks,
if Harry Houdini can challenge the gods,
there’s always a way to get out of a fix.

I doubt you would like this place.
Blue light on crusted snow,
sage drained of chlorophyll,
grey sky mirrored in the pond.

You say, "The dead of winter."
I hear revving in the distance
as a rancher warms his truck
to feed the bawling cattle.

This below zero day
freezes complicated thought.
The death of desire makes me tired.
​I want to sleep until spring.

A badged man waves paper over my hands.
I ask what he wants to find.
"Traces of explosives," the man explains.
"Wow!" I remark to my palms.

After takeoff, I ask the steward,
"What do they want to know?"
"If you built a bomb or fired a gun."
The man across the aisle snickers.

"She's old enough to be my mother."
I want my forefinger to grow bony
so I can poke him in the ribs and hiss,
"These old hands have strangled cats."

Instead, I fold my dangerous hands
in an age-appropriate way,
and smile when the snickering guy
peeks to see if I am his mother.

If mothers and grandmothers were screened for violent thoughts,
​airlines would go out of  business.

The winter of 1946, Dad was managing  a small outfit on the southwest flank of the Ruby Mountains, five miles from the hamlet of Lee, Nevada and thirty  miles from  Elko.  Although 1946  precedes the haylift of ‘48,  clearly Old Man Winter was building momentum.

You probably have your own snowed-in stories  from your folks or your grandparents toughing out  a hard winter.  If not, I suggest you go to “Operation Haylift” in the Special Collections at the University of Nevada Library to be reminded that “the winter of 1948-49 was the worst in the Western United States since 1889.  In Northern Nevada, sheep in the hundreds of thousands and cattle in the tens of thousands were stranded in snowdrifts without feed on their winter ranges.  Ranch houses were snowed in as well. Read about it in the archives of the University of Nevada.

In those days, being snowed-in  could have life-threatening implications, and my mother said they were snowed-in at the ranch for a month.   However, one of Mom’s favorite stories was about the two young cowboys hired to feed cattle that winter and their comic dilemma.  While the boys  were spending their days at  below-zero work  feeding cows with a team of horses and a hay wagon, their  girlfriends were spending their evenings at the Silver Dollar Club, the bar on Commercial Street in Elko.  After supper, the two cowboys would get on the  telephone and  call the Silver Dollar  to talk to their girls.  Disregarding the embarrassment of neighbors listening in on the party line and the agony of hearing the girls shout above the honkytonk  music, clinking of glasses,  and laughter--well, it was driving them crazy.  

To make matters worse,  a heavy pogonip frost had settled in.  Visibility was negligible. If you have ever seen a pogonip after the fog has lifted and the sun has come out, you know it is a breathtaking sight.  Cottonwood trees, willows, even clumps of crested wheatgrass bunched above the snow are covered with frost crystals.  The high desert landscape is transformed into a fairytale.   During a pogonip, it’s a different story.   Snow and sky merge into a cold, thick fog.   It’s a  treacherous situation.  You have no sense of direction.

Finally, the boys had had it.  They came to  Dad to say they quit.  They told him they were saddling up and riding to Lee.  Surely, the county road was open and the mail truck was getting through.  They would hitch a ride to Elko.  

Dad let them go.  He went to the barn  and helped them saddle two of the ranch horses. The boys were apologetic, appreciative, and hell-bent on getting to town.
Through her kitchen window, Mom said she watched two ghost riders disappear.  When Dad came into the house, she scolded, “Fred!  How could you let those boys go?  They'll get lost!  They'll freeze to death.”

“Don’t worry, Helen. They’ll be back,” he said as he left to go to the barn.

Over the years, Mom told us this story many times.  I can still hear her delight in the punchline.   “And sure enough!  About three hours later, here came those boys back into view through the heavy fog.  Your dad knew those ranch horses would  make a big circle and head back to the barn.  That’s exactly what they did!”

Both my folks are gone.  I don’t know how the story ended.  I know that sooner or later, the sun came out and the road to the ranch got plowed.  Did the snowed-in, lovesick cowboys get their girlfriends back?  I hope so.





​

I don't wish you were here.
I doubt you would like this place,
blue light on old snow,
sage drained of color,

You say, "The dead of winter."
I hear the revving of an engine
as a rancher warms his truck
to feed the bawling cattle.

This below zero day
freezes complicated thought.
The slow death of desire makes me tired.
​I want to sleep until spring.