As I write this column, a layer of snow is settling over Yorkton. My car is half-covered in the white powder. The wind is strong and stiff. The cold air feels like a slap in the face.
It’s the middle of November. I am not prepared for winter in the Prairies.
Autumn used to be my favourite season of the year. I loved the crunch of fall leaves beneath my shoes. I adored the vibrant colours. The temperature was perfect; not too cold, not too warm. It was the perfect time of year.
Notice how that sentence was in the past tense? That’s because I don’t love autumn so much these days.
September was everything I thought it would be. The temperature, the colours, everything was just right. I was looking forward to two more months of autumn
Then October hit. And snow blanketed the town. I was stunned.
The snow in the Prairies isn’t a struggle for me. I’ve walked to school in waist-high tundras, so I can handle Jack Frost’s dandruff.
But I’m not built for the cold. I’ve somewhat adapted to it, but it’s still bracing. I recently shaved and it’s the worst decision I’ve made in a while. Walking outside is like sliding into an ice box after a swim in the pool.
What makes it hard to bear is the suddenness of it all. One day, it was t-shirt weather; the next I was shoving my toque down to my neck. My body’s not used to such an immediate drop-off in temperature.
I knew the Prairies would be cold, but I don’t think I fully accepted it. Every Canadian province thinks they have the roughest winters (except British-Columbia). Newfoundlanders, Albertans, and everyone in between thinks they’ve got the harshest temperatures.
I certainly thought Nova Scotia had tough winters. In the middle of January, we’re buried in mounds of mushy snow. Ice clings to the ground. I believed Nova Scotian winters had made me cold-proof.
What a fool I was. The temperature in the Prairies now rivals the worst of Nova Scotian winters. And it’s still autumn. It’s going to get much worse before it gets better.
To add insult to injury, everyone back home is cruising by with +10 degree weather. They barely need sweaters. And they have the temerity to complain to me that it’s too cold. If I could reach through the phone and show them my freezing hands, I would.
It’s not all bad, though. By the time winter is over, I’ll have a brand new threshold of cold-tolerance. Or I’ll look like Jack Nicholson at the end of The Shining. It’s a toss up.
