Snow Hymns Michael Garrigan (bio) You notice the silence first. It's impossible to miss because it's the only thing there is. The silence and the sagging tent, but that comes after. Once you open your eyes and they adjust to the dark that isn't so dark anymore because even through nylon, even in the middle of the night, even at eight thousand feet ten miles deep in the backcountry, even then, snow somehow gathers what little light there is and radiates it as it weighs down your rainfly until you Pop! punch it off and then it slides, a slow gathering kind of silence, piling up at the base of your tent, where your boots are sitting, freezing; and you know you should get up out of your warm bag and put your boots on and clean your tent off but the thought of sticking your feet in frozen boots just makes you roost a little bit deeper into your zero-degree bag and close your eyes and there, there's the silence you've been looking for. The silence of snow falling. The silence of mountains sitting under the new weight of the season's first blizzard. The silence of your crewmates still sleeping. The silence of only you knowing that you're socked in up on a little saddle between peaks in the Siskiyou Mountains. The silence of being, finally, alone. [End Page 1] "16.43 Packing Livestock." Forest Service Handbook 1. Keep the animal's back clean, saddle pad straight, saddle blanket smooth, saddle properly fitted and tight, and side packs as equal in weight as possible "'People come and people go, some grow young, some grow cold . . .' Dude, what's the next line?" Tom asked. "There's a harmonica riff, then 'I woke up in between a memory and a dream,'" I said. Our banter always retreats to Tom Petty songs. Singing snippets that, over the course of our ten-hour days, blend together, creating our own version of Petty's greatest hits—"Mary Jane falling from the losers going down swingin' trying to find the room at the top before all the walls fall down . . ." Sometimes the days clearing trail get long, the stillness of the mountains and the steepness of the ravines are too much and you sing to keep a steady hand on your McLeod. It's always Petty. Everyone knows a Petty lyric, no matter where you're from. Our crew came from east of the Rockies—New Jersey, Michigan, Massachusetts, Long Island, Pennsylvania, South Carolina—most of us never having been this close to the Pacific before—and we all knew at least one or two Petty songs. I grew up in a small town in south central Pennsylvania, often referred to as Amish Country if you aren't from around there. You knew people by what job they had; people knew you by where you went on Sunday. Sure, know some Petty, but be Pro-Life and vote Republican. Hold the Bible at the perfect angle against your chest so Father Joe can read the Homily. Look up and watch his eyes as they build his language of faith; watch his lips sing the hymns so you know the words, too. Kneel, keep your back straight, and watch his arms reach out into a topography of transubstantiation. Ring the bells at exactly the right time during the Eucharist to mark the moments of transition, burying their edges into the red-carpet altar to mute them. Don't acknowledge your gay cousin. Don't wear that Violent Femmes shirt out in public, people might know it's a song about masturbation. Tie the robe tight. Thankfully, I left that cloister quickly after graduation and spent four years in the concrete watershed of Pittsburgh where Petty played in damp basements full of sweaty college kids and kegs and beer pong tables. I'd [End Page 2] ride my bike through the night up and down those steep hills chasing one watershed down into another always finding another confluence of water and light. I liked to sit there and watch the city sink into water. I liked to watch the...
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Mar 7, 2021
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