Everything but the Snow Shovel

By Lyman Hafen

By Lyman HafenIn the winter of 1979-80, my wife, our new little boy, and I moved to Idaho Falls, Idaho. We had no idea what we were getting into. Debbie and I still sensed between our toes the warm remnant of the red sand of Utah’s Dixie. I had just graduated from Brigham Young University, and two winters there had taught me that the further you wander north, the colder it gets. But there was no way for a sixth-generation St. George boy to imagine the bone-cold wind of the Snake River plain.

Living in Idaho Falls, I discovered a mode of transportation called the snowmobile. My boss, who was publisher of Snowmobile West Magazine, had access to the latest model snow machines. It By Lyman Hafen wasn’t long before I’d jockeyed many of them to the top of some of the most storied mountains of Idaho and Wyoming, from Island Park to Togwotee Pass. I learned quickly what real cold was. I loved the riding, but my blood was not calibrated for such temperatures.

During my second winter in Idaho Falls, I flew in a private plane to a business conference in Winnipeg, Canada. I still believe the coldest moment of my life was at some point during the twenty seconds from the door of the cab to the door of the hotel in downtown Winnipeg. That night, the wind howled down that canyon of tall buildings like the breath of a mythic ice monster.

After four years in Idaho Falls among some of the best people on earth, Debbie and I returned to St. George with our little brood that had grown to three boys. It took us a year or two to thaw out, though sometimes when I think about it, I wonder if I’m still thawing out. We wanted to come home. We believed it was easier to cool off in the heat than warm up in the cold. We brought everything home with us but the snow shovel.

The other day, I was shuffling through some old black and white photographs. One brought back a boyhood memory reminding me how cold it got even here where, as the Chamber of Commerce always proudly said, “the summer sun spends the winter.” In the early 1960s, my dad was a member of the Washington County Sheriff’s Mounted Posse. Mom was a member of the Posse-ettes. Every year in the midst of winter, they held a rodeo at the old posse grounds on the northwest outskirts of town, just west of today’s Sunset Corner Stadium 8 theater. I was a horseback kid in those days, and our corrals were out near the posse grounds. The first thing on New Year’s morning, we’d saddle up and ride over to the arena and compete in a number of events, including calf riding.

The photograph I came across was of me riding a Holstein calf at the posse grounds when I was maybe ten years old. What I remember most was how cold those days were and how, when you climbed up on the chute, your legs shivered, and your fingers were so frozen they felt shot-through with fire. I’m sure some of the shivering was from nerves and fear, but most of it was from the cold. As you climbed down on the back of the calf and stuck your numb hand under the prickly rope and your dad pulled it up snug and told you to lean back and hold on tight, you never felt so cold in your life.

Then the gate opened, and that wiry little calf shot out into the arena, and you held on for all you were worth until your frozen knuckles cracked and your grip shattered, and you slid off and splattered in the icy sand, and the calf’s hind hoof stomped down upon your thigh, creating what later would manifest itself as a bruise more colorful than a southern Utah sunset, and you wanted to cry but you knew there was no crying in rodeo, yet the hot tears squeezed out anyway and rolled cold down your frozen cheeks, and finally it was over, and you limped back toward the chute as the folks in the spectator stands applauded and the announcer congratulated you on a great effort, and you never felt so cold in your life.

Not long after I came across that photo, I received a text from an old friend. It included a photo of a clipping from the January 13, 1966, edition of the Washington County News. In one terse paragraph, our county’s only news source in those days listed all the kids at the recent rodeo who had won a free meal at Dick’s Café in the calf riding event.

That year, Dick Hammer, the legendary owner of Dick’s Café on St. George Boulevard, had promised a T-bone steak to any kid who could ride a calf past the first light pole at the posse grounds. I had no idea what a T-bone steak was. All I knew was half the kids in town were risking their lives for one, so I threw in.

It was the coldest day of my life to that point. But a week or so later, when my dad took me to Dick’s to redeem my prize, I sat down to my first T-bone steak. Dick Hammer came and sat down in the booth with dad and me, and as I listened to those two cowboys tell each other stories, I never felt so warm.

About the Author

Lyman Hafen

Lyman is the author of a dozen books intent on connecting landscape and story in the American Southwest. He is executive director of the Zion National Park Forever Project, and is past president of the national Public Lands Alliance. He’s been writing and publishing for more than 35 years, with several hundred magazine articles in publications ranging from Western Horseman to Northern Lights, and was the founding editor of St. George Magazine in 1983. He’s been recognized on several occasions with literary awards from the Utah Arts Council, and won the Wrangler Award from the National Cowboy and Western Heritage Museum. He lives in Santa Clara, Utah, with his wife Debbie, and together they have 6 children and 18 grandchildren.