“If I were the star of a children’s novel, I would be a squirrel,” Copper said. “Gaby would be….what would you be, Gaby? A bear? A baby bear?”
“Wha’?” Gaby asked, blinking, coming out of her hiking reverie.
“If you and Copper had a children’s novel based after you two, called ‘The Adventures of Copper and Gaby,” what animal would you be?” I replied. “Copper would be a squirrel. She thinks you would be a baby bear.”
“But we can’t have a children’s novel,” Copper said. “We don’t have a straight man.”
“I could be your straight man, and make random appearances,” I said. “Or J could be. Or you wouldn’t need a straight man. It’s not like you do in real life.”
“True.”
Copper, Gaby, and I, dressed to the nines in warm winter clothes, picked our way down Mount Wantastiquet. The air was still and quiet. The cold burned our noses as we breathed in and out, sending plumes of steam into the air. Underneath our layers we were chilled with sweat. The evening before, contentedly eating pumpkin apple muffins with date frosting, Gaby had blurted out that we should go for a run to the mountain, bring the muffins with us, eat them at the top, and then run home. Copper and I excitedly agreed—probably just for the muffin-eating.
When we awoke in the morning, the weather report said 6 degrees. Gaby bobbed her head up and down in traditional ‘Gabster’ style, her eyes stuck to the ceiling as she left the room for the moment in thought. “And you still want to run there?”
“yeah….I think it’d be fun….”
“Then let’s do this!”
Pulling a scarf up over my mouth we left through the front door, breaking into a trot, then a jog, as we started down the sidewalk. “You guys are dressed like it’s cold or something!” our landlord, Jim, yelled after us. We just waved. Down the hill we went, gaining speed. Gaby halted in front of the crazy lady’s house, trotting in place. “Hey you guys,” she called, “look! All these bananas…I wonder if we could grab some on the way home?”
The bananas were blackened from the cold. “Maybe,” I said doubtfully. “I mean, sometimes she leaves things out for people…but not always. I’d be afraid to encounter her wrath.” Gaby shrugged.
“We will see on the way back?” Copper nodded.
We kept going. Down the hill, through the intersection affectionately termed “Dysfunction Junction” (three lights for eight directions of traffic. We aren’t sure what the town of Brattleboro was thinking when they created it), and across the bridge. The river echoed beneath us, stretching out in its whiteness.
“I can’t believe a river can completely freeze over,” I said, gazing at it in awe. I nearly slipped on the icy bridge. Our strides were slow and cumbersome. Running in slick snow, while manageable, left us placing each foot down with meticulous, trepedatious care. As we crossed the bridge we entered New Hampshire, home of the tax-free alcohol. Fun fact: there are no alcohol stores anywhere near Brattleboro on the Vermont side. Why would anyone pay a 10 percent sales tax, when a jaunt over the river can rid you of it? We loped along the side of the highway. On our right was a railing separating us from traffic, on the left, a peninsula of land covered in dormant trees and old silver snow. We crossed another bridge and turned left onto a gravel road. Jogging uphill our breath came in icy bursts. The condensation lingered in the sky before being whisked away by the bitter wind.
“I hate running uphill,” Copper moaned.
“I love the feeling of having run a hill,” I rejoindered. “I just hate the actual running of it. It’s like…a pure feeling, I guess.”
“yeah, I guess so. I think so, too. I still wish this weren’t much of a hill.” I laughed. It felt freeing to be outside; to not be hooked into a machine of a routine. As we rounded the bend I raced towards the entrance of the Mount Wantastiquet trails. There was only one other car in the parking lot. Everything else was quiet. We dropped to a walk, breathing hard. None of us had run outside since winter had claimed New England.
The trail was crunchy. Our feet left crisp indents in the scattered snow and buildup of dry, dead leaves and needles. Occasionally birds would chirp. Their voices were forlorn and expansive in the winter forest. As we ascended we hit patches of ice. These frozen rivers cut through our path and we skirted around them, snapping branches as we passed.
“It’s only going to get worse as we go higher,” Copper said.
Gaby and I nodded. “Well, we will go where we can and then eat our muffins,” Gaby said. “We don’t have to go all the way to the top.”
We picked our way up the slope. The only green was the matted brown-green of moss that attached itself to tree trunks and rocks. All else was varying colors of brown, and white, and grey. But the sky above us was blue, and the sun shone and made things sparkle as though we were in a fairy land. I sighed with contentment.
We hit a patch of ice that spanned the entire width of the path and quite a ways up. Copper started her way along the side of it and Gaby followed. Carefully I inched up the slippery slope.
“Maybe we should stop here,” Copper said. “It doesn’t get much better around the bend. Gaby and I peered forward while trying to maintain our footing.
“OK,” Gaby said. “Should we eat the muffins now?”
“Well,” Copper said, “I was also thinking we could go down to the island, between the two bridges, and eat them by the river.”
“That’s a good idea,” Gaby said.
“OK Gaby, my turn!” Yelled Copper. Next thing I knew she had slid on her butt halfway down the ice flow. She scooted to the side past a rock and continued down until she hit solid ground. I laughed. It was a deep laugh, and it felt good. “Copper, you are amazing!”
“Well, Gaby did it last time, so it was my turn now.”
We reached the bottom of the tail. Before leaving we stopped to stare at the wall of ice that encased the mountainside. We heard the gentle gurgle of water, but aside from a thin crescent arcing from the hillside near the path, the waters were frozen. The mountain had morphed, shrinking beneath the wrappings of ice. The stillness, the perfection, the cold—all combined in one instant.
As we ran back to the house, we passed the picket fence that bordered our neighbor’s house. Sweaty and panting, I suddenly remembered the afternoon in mid September when I had plucked a peach from the overhanging tree branches. It was still near summer then, when you could walk and work up a sweat (not that you don’t work up a sweat now, but it’s a different kind of sweat, a cold and clammy sweat that thinks it is keeping you warm but really is making it worse), when the crickets sang at night and thunderstorms woke you in the early hours of the morning with their clashing, flickering wars. I felt it hard to believe that one region, one small space in the world could contain so many different weather patterns; that something as mundane-seeming as Brattleboro could house so much variety.
A week later I was outside running around again, this time in a red onesie and hiking boots. With Jay and Megan I cartwheeled across the square at Keene State University. We were there performing ambiance circus to promote Cirque Alfonse, who would be performing at the University theater that Saturday. It was the circus troupe’s first U.S. tour.
Armed with hula hoops, juggling clubs, lumberjack outfits, and my trusty stool, we entered the theater building to meet the woman who organized the show. Shannon was a beautiful woman with short blonde hair and a wide smile. She later encouraged us to sneak fruit out of the school cafeteria, and gave us free lunch. I can only sum up her free spirit by adding that she does Roller Derby. Her partner, Ivan, took photos of us as we went along.
“I get the hula hoops, but why the stool?” she asked when we first met.
“I handbalance on it,” I said.
“Brilliant!” she said. “Wow. You guys are perfect.”
Performing ambiance circus is rather difficult I have learned. Rather than perform a single act you perform constantly, for as long as the employer needs you. I had never done that many narrow-handed press handstands on my stool in a row before, and it was tiring. Jay threw tumbling passes down the main hallways of the student building and cafeteria; in the small aisles we did handstand walks yelling “Cirque Alfonse! This Saturday! Five Dollar Tickets!” I jumped up onto the edges of banisters and did crockos when I wasn’t on my stool. Megan spun her hoops and juggled, sliding into her splits. We had a riotous time. The elation of performing and feeling like a legitimate circus artist drowned out any stage fright or muscle fatigue I may have experienced. At school, there is always someone better than you, there is always that trick you are fighting for; performing ambiance, the students were amazed by a simple press handstand or straddle hold. I felt capable, talented, superhuman. It was a reminder of why I do circus. Silly as it might sound, as Jay threw his tumbling passes it were as though I were in the presence of something magical. It didn’t matter if I don’t have a one-arm handstand that I could whip out and perform for the students. Just being able to do what I do is amazing. Time will bring more gains and advances, but in that moment what I could do was good enough. It reminded me that I am good enough.