I’ve been writing words in this paper for more than five years. Some of you have enjoyed those words while others have detested them so much that they felt the need to call me, among other things, a communist. This week, however, is my last at the Source. Next week I’m going to go write for another paper in another city that is not Bend, Oregon.

Don’t worry – not that I actually thought you were particularly worried about the departure of someone who once called Tim Tebow fans a “gaggle of idiots” – I’ll still be writing this column for a few more weeks and maybe longer, but you’ll no longer be able to find me hunched behind my computer machine in that old brick building on Georgia Avenue.

Only one thing will get me up before 6 a.m. on a winter’s Sunday morning...fresh snow! Considering the lack of powder days this winter, even two-four inches of white gold drags me out of bed. The previous night’s low temperature and impending cloud cover warned me to wax the skis, pack the pack and make a plan.

Arriving at Dutchman Flats before 7 a.m. afforded me a parking spot with a trailhead view. The morning’s itinerary included a six-mile, roundtrip ski to Big Meadow. The path ran me up the Flagline Access trail to the Big Meadow trail, down to Big Meadow for some exploration and back to the Landcruiser.

 

While snow lovers have cursed La Nina for her fickle ways and meager offerings this year, many hikers, bikers, joggers are checking the forecast each week to see how many more days of running and riding they can fit in. If you’ve been hibernating since November, here’s how warm it is. I saw a couple playing tennis in shorts in mid-December, a time of year more associated with scarves and socks than shirt sleeves and tube socks.

Say what you will about global warming, but there’s something undeniably pleasant about tossing aside your jacket in January. I’m not advocating more carbon emissions or a global monster truck rally, just pointing out that when Old Man Winter throws a change-up pitch, you should take the opportunity to drive it to left field.

The longer I live, the more I wish scientists would succeed with induced hibernation, especially for old duffers like me. I hate winter! Well, not really...I do enjoy going out with my family getting in the winter wood, something I've been doing almost all my life. When I was a kid, we had a huge wood-burning furnace in the basement of the New England farm house where I grew up.

Woodcutting started in October in Connecticut, with oak and elm being the dominant species we used for keeping warm in winter, and the old two-man cross-cut misery whip was the saw we used to buck up logs into firewood lengths. I can still hear my Uncle Harry on the other end of the cross-cut: "Catsfur (my nickname), I don't mind you ridin' that thing, but would you quit draggin' your feet!"

If I could have just hibernated, woodcutting wouldn't be necessary, and think of all the money we'd have saved.