White Planet

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Leslie Anthony. White Planet

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WHITE PLANET

white

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On the day we were to leave for Mexico, a blizzard descended. Merl and I were, as usual, enthusiastic about the snow in a late-night, beery kind of way—until it dawned on us that we could be trapped. Already people’s cars were sealed in their driveways, and we needed to drive several hours to make our flight. We’d have to start early. In the dark, we knocked on my neighbor’s door. Our plight unspoken, Kenny the Snowblower simply nodded understanding, disappeared inside, then reemerged adorned in his Toronto Maple Leafs toque and windowpane glasses to release our truck from its tomb with his new machine. It was a task he relished, and, honor among snow men, we saluted him as we fishtailed up the street into the maelstrom.

AFTER FAILING TO recruit Hart or other local adventurers for the Mexico mission, Merl and I had zeroed in on the two highest volcanoes on Mexico’s Central Plateau and gathered what beta we could. We’d made sketchy photocopies of even sketchier road, climbing, and ski routes. We raced stairs, ran distances, lifted weights, and practiced crevasse rescue on ropes hung from trees. The latter exercise proved moot: we accidentally left the rope at home in the mad, hungover, pre-dawn rush to get to the airport.

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