Page 2 of Cold and Bitter Snow

Raoul was one of the newest recruits. He’d been hired last month, at the start of the season. Hunter hadn’t spoken more than three words to the man, but he’d heard Raoul had some kind of degree in electrical engineering and was good with machines. Because he was still in training, he’d be taking his machine down to the green-coded runs at the bottom of the mountain. It’d take him longer to get there, almost, than to smooth the snow out so the little kids could ski safely the next morning.

“Hey, Conor!” His friend Luc waved. “Always the first one out!”

Luc was one of the most experienced snow groomers in Le Miroir. He was thirty-three—a couple years younger than Conor—and had been snow grooming for five years, since a snowboarding accident fractured his 12th thoracic vertebra and left him paraplegic. He was also Conor’s only friend in the small town that he’d chosen to call home for the last two years, as well as his housemate.

Conor watched his friend wheel himself in, the heavy-tread tires leaving faint snow track marks on the garage floor. Luc smiled at him. Luc was always smiling. Sometimes it was hard for Conor to understand how his friend could look so content when life had dealt him such harsh cards.

Conor saw Luc head for the central vehicle, which was equipped with a hydraulic arm to help get him in and out of the high cabin.

“See you guys in the morning,” Conor said, letting himself out.

The first seconds out in the crisp night air reminded Conor why he did this job and why he insisted on keeping the graveyard shift, which ran from midnight to six a.m., rather than accept a promotion to the five p.m. shift.

He’d first taken the job to ensure he’d be working alone. Just a job, he’d thought to himself. What he hadn’t expected was to enjoy it as much as he did. Six nights a week, it was just him out here, him and the crisp night air, the starry sky, and at the end of his shift a beautiful sunrise that made him feel glad to be alive—despite everything.

Conor had a clear map in his mind of Le Miroir’s north sector. He had about twenty miles of ground to cover tonight. He started at one of the red runs and broke down the moguls and jumps, using the blade at the front to bring the snow back up the slope where it should be.

The next slope was a black diamond one. He paid particular attention to this one—it was steep enough that he was grateful for the winch which supported the machine. Again, he gathered up as much snow as possible from the bottom of the slope, bringing it up to the top. He spent some extra time ensuring there were no rocks hidden inside the snow.

He worked through the runs methodically and carefully. He took his responsibility seriously, knowing a mistake particularly in one of the more difficult slopes, could prove deadly for a skier the next morning.

Every so often he saw lights from another snowcat in the distance, Luc’s or Raoul’s, or even one further away from the other sectors. But most of the time he was completely alone. It felt like he was swimming through the snow.

By the time his work was done, the sky was filled with hints of purple, pink, and yellow. He noted down the time—ten to six. The hours had flown by. He picked up the radio and informed his boss, the night shift’s team leader, that all was ready in the north sector. He didn’t need to say anything else. He knew his boss would tell the resort’s Operations Director, and it’d be one more item on a long checklist they’d go through before the resort opened two hours later.

Two minutes later, his friend Luc’s voice relayed a similar message.

Then Conor heard his friend’s voice on a private channel. He picked up the radio again, working carefully as he maneuvered the vehicle back into the garage.

“You up for some skiing later, Conor, after we get some sleep?”

“I’ll let you know. I’m going running now for a bit before sleeping.”

“All night awake wasn’t enough for you?” Luc laughed. “You sure you don’t want me to wait for you? I saw you didn’t bring a snowmobile last night.”

“That’s fine, thanks Luc. I’ll end my run back at the gondola lift and head down that way.”

#

Conor

After checking the snowcat for new damage and confirming all was in good order, Conor headed to the bathroom to change.

He was tired, but nowhere near tired enough to be able to go to sleep. By the time he got back to his apartment and crawled into bed he needed to be exhausted, so tired he couldn’t see straight. That was the only way to keep his nightmares at bay for the five hours of sleep he needed to function.

Walking outside, he shivered in the cold morning air. He’d ditched the uniform and was now wearing black sports clothes with light waterproof pants on top, a woolen hat, lightweight gloves, and hiking boots. He couldn’t afford the kind of technical clothes he used to wear while in the Army, but he knew he’d be warm enough when he started running.

Shouldering his day pack, which contained some water and his snowshoes, he took off at a fast jog.

He’d always enjoyed running. One foot in front of another, again and again. When the snow got too deep, he put his snowshoes on and loped on through the morning fog. He went further than usual, all the way to the top of the Le Miroir’s Glacier II. He was panting loudly by the time he reached the top.

He took a swig from his water bottle, gasping at the cold, then straightened up and looked around him. Snowy mountains and blue sky surrounded him in all directions. Standing here, alone, he was reminded of his own insignificance.

If he lay down on the snow now, closed his eyes and waited, it would be unlikely that anybody would find him before death claimed him. But he wouldn’t do that, for the same reason he hadn’t done it back in Colorado, even when at his lowest. He wasn’t about to put his family through something like that.

No, he wasn’t going to go looking for it—but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t welcome death with open arms when it came. The whole mess in Colombia had done away with his survival instinct—and in doing so had made him a danger to himself and to others. That’s why he’d had to leave his job. How could he evaluate safety correctly if he didn’t care whether he lived or died?

But leaving the Army hadn’t stopped him from thinking about what happened in Colombia. Sometimes his mind chose to focus on the moment they were captured—as if any of those mistakes could be undone. Sometimes it was the torture that played on repeat—everything he and Logan had endured, replayed in vivid colors. Not a single day went by that he didn’t wonder why he had survived while Logan, who’d had a wife and a little girl waiting for him at home, had died.