I jumped from the pickup and the snow squeaked like Styrofoam being crushed under the soles of my boots. From somewhere on the other side of the fence a heifer bawled. I made the mistake of raising my face into the push of the Montana wind and felt my lashes knit together. It took a moment of intense blinking to get them working properly again. A dozen hurried steps brought me to the steel gate where tiny ice crystals made the grey bars glitter in the headlights. The big brass padlock that lashed the chain around gate and post was ornamented in similar fashion. I grabbed it and banged it hard against the post and even through my thick glove was able to feel how cold it was.
Shoving my right forearm under the left armpit of my coat I wedged the glove and quickly tugged my hand out of the warm covering. The cold seized it the moment the skin was exposed. It felt like the grasp of something paranormal. With my body turned so that the headlights shone upon the four numbered dials on the lock I rapidly began working on the combination. I got the 8 easily—thankfully the dial was not frozen—but the second dial resisted. I rubbed at it hard with my thumb, pushing at the metal. I could feel the little ridges that separated each number for the first few seconds, and then that sensation left my skin. When it finally yielded, I rolled the dial to the 2. The wind hissed at me like it was angry, sending a dusting of ice from the gate bars across my face and the exposed back of my hand. I felt each tiny crystal like a needle on my face, but only for a second and then numbness erased everything. My hand felt nothing.
When I started pushing my thumb against the third dial I was no longer able to tell whether it moved or not. The coldness of the metal had simply become a block against which I rubbed a numb digit. I peered closely at the lock and by sight worked my thumbnail into position against a little ridge of metal and tried to roll the dial. I had no way of telling if it moved with my thumb so I checked the number showing. It was a 3, but now I couldn’t remember what number it had displayed prior to my attempt, only that I needed it to get to the 7. I poked at it with my index finger, jabbing it like it had offended me. It rolled a number and I kept poking. By the time the 7 showed on the dial it felt like I was poking it with a stick that had been strapped to the end of my wrist.
With effort I curled my fingers and cupped my rapidly freezing right hand in the palm of my gloved left and blew on it. The coil of my fingers created a little grotto and the warm air from my lungs swirled about the frozen digits until I could move them again. I attacked the fourth dial quickly, hoping to utilize what little dexterity was left in my hand before it vanished in the frigid air. For a moment I had the impression that it moved, but upon looking I could see that it had not. I tried again but in vain, the fingers no longer doing anything for me but adorning the end of my arm. I pushed my hand back into the glove, not bothering to put the fingers into their individual sleeves, only my thumb. There was just enough motility and strength left in that thumb to let me grasp the lock against my palm and hold it awkwardly in my right hand.
I caught my left glove between my thighs and jerked the hand free. In spite of the glove it had already begun growing cold. I had to turn my body now that I was using the other hand so the truck lights kept the lock visible in the January night and doing so brought me round so that the wind was directly in my face. The tip of my nose stiffened and the muscles of my cheeks became sluggish. With growing urgency I used my left thumb against the last dial pushing it in both directions, scraping my nail across it. Jabbing at it. It refused to move away from the 1. All I needed was to get it to read 8270, and the nearness of my goal mocked me. I jerked the lock against the chain hard, sending a shower of ice dust across my face and bare hand. I felt the latter become immobile as I tried with futile effort to roll the last dial a final time. I cursed and my chin was stiff clay.
I let the lock drop back against the gate and the metal on metal rang with a frosty note. Heeding that call to retreat I rushed back to the passenger door of the pickup and somehow managed to get it open and climb into the warmth of the cab.
“I got all but the last number,” I said to my brother. My words came out slurred and slow. “Your turn.”
He pulled his hat down firmly over his head, bent the brim a bit over his brow, and exited the truck into the Montana winter.
A. Keith Kelly grew up on the Crow Indian Reservation in Montana and worked for years as a fly-fishing and bird hunting guide before entering academia. He is now a professor of English literature and writing living on a tiny farm outside of Atlanta, Georgia.