A Glimpse of Heaven
Ed Colby
When my enthusiastic and very Catholic beekeeping mentee Megan announced that she would stop by the farm to drop off Christmas goodies, I cited my doctor’s warning to cut back on the sweets. (Tough medicine for a beekeeper!) I regretted this afterwards, because the wise Marilyn taught me long ago to accept all gifts with grace and appreciation.
It’s early February as I write, and yesterday Megan stopped by with a belated Christmas gift – a shallow honey super, complete with frames and foundation, along with a comb cutter, for cut comb honey.
But what intrigued me more was the playing card-sized artist’s rendition of St. Abigail, sixth century Irish patron saint of beekeepers, that fell out of Megan’s holiday card. The hauntingly lovely, haloed Abigail looks back at you through the palest of pale blue eyes. She holds up a tiny fragment of honeycomb in her delicate hands, like an offering. Bees circle overhead.
The days fly by, then weeks and months and years. Time speeds up as we age. Did you know that? When I was a boy, Summer lasted an eternity. Now it slips away in the winking of an eye. So the less time we have remaining, the faster it goes. I try to make sense of this. We’re not here for a long time. Nothing we can do about that. Maybe the important question is, what have we learned?
The Colorado State Beekeepers Association held their Winter meeting in Longmont on December 3, 2005. Former Bee Culture editor Kim Flottum was the featured speaker. I planned to attend, but a blizzard moved in. With 200 miles and the Continental Divide between me and Longmont, I reconsidered and went back to work on Aspen Mountain. This decision had profound implications, as December 3, 2005 turned out to be the worst – and the best – day of my life.
By noon I was buried in an avalanche. When it broke, I lunged for an aspen tree, hanging on briefly, until a river of snow ripped me away and down the mountain again.
I didn’t go that far, very quickly coming to rest in a ditch that cuts across the ski slope. I could feel the snow silently piling on top of me. I found myself stuck in the skydiver freefall position – face down, with my knees bent and feet elevated. My initial reaction was surprise. It struck me as unfair and even illogical that someone as claustrophobic as I should be buried alive. Why not somebody else?
I could move my left foot. I thought my ski boot might be sticking up out of the snow (it wasn’t), so I tried moving it in hopes of attracting attention. Then I thought, “Ed, you don’t have to wiggle your foot. If anybody sees a boot sticking up out of a pile of avalanche debris, they’ll guess there’s somebody on the end of it!”
On the bright side, I got caught in a closed area almost right under the chairlift, and I heard lift riders scream when the slide started. I was pretty sure I’d seen Isabel on the chair. She had her ski patrol radio. Reassuringly, my own patrol radio began squawking nonstop, but muffled under the snow.
I wondered if my avalanche beacon was on. I knew it was in my patrol coat pocket. Then I recalled turning it on that morning. I remembered Curtis checking all of our beacons as we headed out the door.
So I knew they’d find me, but I wondered how long it would take. I could raise my face maybe a fraction of an inch. My mouth and nose were clear of snow. I could breathe OK, for now.
But I only got partway through the Lord’s Prayer before panic strangled me, and I forgot the words. (Later, when I told this to Father Bob, he chuckled and told me about the time he fell into a well.)
I screamed – twice that I recall. I remember thinking afterward, “Don’t be a fool, Ed. Who could hear you down here?”
As I began to run out of air, I gasped uncontrollably.
The next thing I remember is awakening as if from a dream to footsteps on top of the snow directly above me. “Oh, good,” I thought.
Then I heard furious digging that got frantic and close. I heard Ricky yelling. A great peace descended on me, as I slipped back into dreamland.
Then I was in the world again. My face was blue (some say purple) when they dug me out. I was barely breathing. The first person I saw was Ali. “Ed, we love you,” she said, over and over, like a mantra. She looked and sounded so desperately sincere. I confess I melted. I smiled. Ask anybody who was there.
By now half the patrol was at my side. Their voices sounded musical. I said, “I’m pretty sure I’m OK,” but they ignored me. They tied me down onto a backboard. When I started to shiver, they stuffed hot packs inside my jacket.
Somebody asked me if I wanted my face covered up with blankets for my toboggan ride down. Were they kidding? “No, thanks,” I said. “I was buried long enough.”
I heard, “Who’s running this rig?” It pleased me when Gorp said, “I am,” because he can drive a sled.
On my ride down I took stock of my situation. As we shot through Spar Gulch, I suddenly understood. From flat on my back I looked up at the wide world. The sky opened. Maybe I caught a glimpse of Heaven.
