The time is growing short as I prepare for an epic battle with the Devouring One. My mind is stilled as the New Year approaches setting in motion a legendary struggle between mortal man and the god of the cold north wind, Boreas. Providence as has aligned the stars so that I will battle the white abyss as the first sun of the New Year sets over my small hamlet. So it has been written.
For those that do not know, Boreas was the Greek god of the cold north wind and the bringer of winter. His name meant "North Wind" or "Devouring One". Greek legend described Boreas as very strong, with a violent temper to match. He was frequently depicted as a winged old man with shaggy hair and beard, holding a conch shell and wearing a billowing cloak. During my journey I am sure to stare into his cold fierce eyes challenging his rule. Do not underestimate his power and cruelty as he recently stole Christmas from a quarter million travelers in Denver last week alone. He has been conserving his energy for the time when he is the strongest at which time he will seek vengeance and retribution from anyone that stands in his way. The lands on which we will battle are already known and the mild calm is only a retreat from the fury to come.
In a hundred years my travels will never be aligned such as they are for January. Fate has written this clash in the calendar without reprieve or repentance. I shall only be home about six days in January. As if I was attempting to provoke Boreas by spitting in his face, I will visit the cities of Toronto, Minneapolis, Chicago, Rapid City, Cheyenne and Denver to face the brunt of the cold while Philadelphia and Baltimore wait with ice and sleet. The only shelter I will find is three days in San Antonio to recover my strength and will. No one can expect to walk the razor’s edge for so long without bleeding. I’m sure it will provide the next generation hours of entertainment as the tales of courage are told before a warm fireplace.
Most people consider my actions as a road warrior who has gone insane. Why tempt fate and hurl myself into the lair of the winter gods. Everyone knows that I no longer ski or enjoy winter sports. The sad truth is that this fools schedule is another fleeting attempt to gain fame and fortune. However if I should survive, I will be granted my reward in February when I travel to Australia for three weeks during the waning of the summer season. What can I say “Only fools rush in where wise men fear to tread.” I’ll see you on the white side.
In the dread circle hemmed by glaciers,
Pallid waste where no radiant fathomers,
Columbuses or Gamas, ever pass,
In realms of dingy gloom and deep crevasse
Seized from creation by nonentity,
Beyond ice floe and berg and ice-bound sea,
Deep in the fog that quenches every ray,
In stone waves and rock waters, far from day,
Amid the gloom, there, on the pole, stands black
Archangel Winter, darkness on his back
And trumpet at his lips; nor does he cast
One flash of eye, or blow one clarion-blast;
He never even dreams, being sheer snow;
The winged winds, captives of that age-old foe
Silence, are in his hand—birds in a snare;
His sightless eyes horribly watch the air;
Hoarfrost is in his bones and on his head,
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
He terrifies the Vast, he seems so wild;
He is harsh, dismal, ice—that is, exiled;
The earth beneath his feet, in its dark cape,
Is dumb; he is the mute white stony shape
Set on that tomb in the eternal night;
Never does any motion, sound, or light
Brush the lone giant in that somber pall.
But when, on the timepieces that we call
Stars, the last day, endless and centerless,
Will sound, then the Lord's face will luminesce
And melt the spirit; his mouth will distend
Suddenly, in a savage, dreadful bend,
And the worlds—skiffs rudderless, rolling on—
Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.
Archangel Winter
by Victor Hugo
