Christmas Miracles of a Recently Fallen Spruce

By Brandon Witt

Paxton Peterson’s favorite day of the year is his annual Gay Boy Christmas dinner. He’s checked and double-checked his to-do list, because nothing stresses him out like the unexpected. Confident everything will run smoothly, Paxton embarks on his yearly snowshoed hike through the Rocky Mountains near his home. His perfectly planned evening is cut short by Logan Charles’s careless enjoyment of his brother’s snowmobile, and Paxton is stranded in the woods. It’s the worst thing that could’ve possibly happened to him—or maybe the best.

S
NOWFALL
IS
indistinguishable from starlight when you’re in the forest at night and peer up at the sky through heavy evergreen branches. You don’t even need to squint your eyes. Against the unpolluted Rocky Mountain sky, with the steam of your breath wafting in front of your face, the stars seem to drift lightly down from the heavens, glistening and magical, landing around you like so many frozen jewels.

I always say my favorite part of Christmas is my Gay Boy Christmas Dinner, but it isn’t, even though I love it. This is my favorite part. A couple of miles deep in the woods, my annual solitary snowshoe hike every Christmas Eve. Yeah. This is my favorite part. I’m done with the cooking prep and house cleaning of the two days before. The house is clean, glowy, and festive. My most current attempt to outdo the boys for the Horny Elf Exchange was wrapped under the tree. There were only a few last minute chores to do before the boys arrived Christmas afternoon. Everything done, everything ready, every item on the list checked off. Only thing left to do for the evening is listen to Christmas music with my earbuds and meander through a winter wonderland. Perfection.

This particular Christmas Eve snowshoe hike is especially enchanting. Most of the time, we don’t have a white Christmas. It’s a misnomer that Colorado is the land of holiday snow. Most of the time, I’m snowshoeing through week-old snow that’s little more than crunchy ice. But not this year. I could practically hear Bing Crosby, Danny Kaye, Rosemary Clooney, and that other chick sing “Snow” in four-part harmony while riding the train to Vermont.

Actually, it was a little more than beautiful. I would have advised anyone else to turn back half an hour before. The thick snowfall, while gorgeous, makes it easy to become disoriented. Most people would get so turned around, they’d not find their way out until New Year’s. I’m not most people, though. Nope, Paxton Peterson is not your everyday snowshoer. Or everyday anything else, for that matter. Remember those lists for the Gay Boy Christmas Dinner I mentioned earlier? Well, list isn’t really the most appropriate term. Never mind I’ve hosted this dinner for the past twelve years, I still make outlines, charts, and reminders for every single step. Steve Sun arrives with his trick of the month in tow? No problem—already have a place setting waiting to be retrieved from the spare bedroom. Gabe Rice forgot the Horny Elf Exchange for the third year running? Come on, challenge me here, that’s for amateurs. There are three extra Horny Elf gifts wrapped and ready to go, just in case. They’re not as good as mine, of course, but serves him right.

I’m the triple A of type A personalities. My Backpack of Safety alleviates any worry the snowfall might cause.

I don’t know why more people don’t prepare for things adequately. It really does cause less stress. And, no, I wasn’t a Boy Scout. I might not meet their approval, being the gay man that I am, but I figure that it’s actually fair. They don’t meet my approval either. I’ve never met a Boy Scout who was half as prepared as I am for anything.

Not that I go around meeting Boy Scouts.

While I might be prepared for every eventuality, I can’t brag that I’m in the best shape. Some people describe me as skinny. I’m not fond of those people. I have a swimmer’s build. If the swimmer never swam and had no definition. And if the swimmer was kick-ass in the kitchen. Yep. Some people might go so far as to describe me as soft skinny or fat skinny. Really, really don’t like those people.

Maybe if I spent a touch more time in the gym like my gay card says I am supposed to, the events of this Christmas Eve might have gone differently.

They might have gone like this:

I’m nearing the top of a snow-covered hill, thick with forty-foot tall Christmas trees. Moving fairly quickly, excited to see the white expanse that waits just beyond the crest, there wouldn’t have been an issue. The snowmobile, unheard over
Glee
’s version of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside,” would have zoomed over the ridge, caught air, headed back down in my direction, and I would have merely pirouetted out of the way as gracefully as a sugar plum fairy. The snowmobile would zoom on by and out of sight, leaving only tracks over the snow. I would have undoubtedly flipped the driver off, forgetting that I was wearing mittens, and then sat down on the nearby stump of a recently fallen spruce to get my heart rate down to an acceptable syncopation. I would have finished my snowshoeing, returned to my Jeep, and gone back home to review the small lists of tasks for Christmas morning and then fall asleep.

That might have happened if I had made it a practice to do even just one sit-up a day.

Alas, no sit-ups had been done in the recent past. Or the far, far past, for that matter.

Therefore, when the snowmobile, unheard over
Glee
’s version of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside,” zoomed over the ridge, caught air, and headed back down in my direction, I screamed at the top of my lungs, attempted to fling myself out of the path of the speeding onslaught, caught my left snowshoe in the branches of a recently fallen spruce, twisting my ankle in the process, landed in more branches of that damned recently fallen spruce, and screamed again. And for its part, the snowmobile also didn’t respond according to how it should have. Snowmobiles don’t do sit-ups, so I am not clear on its excuse. Regardless, upon finding a snowshoer enjoying the magic of Christmas Eve in its path, the snowmobile landed in an explosive cloud of snow, attempted to swerve in an overcompensating jerk and crashed into the branches of the recently fallen spruce that I might have mentioned. Mere inches from my recently twisted ankle.

It turns out, I did not have an opportunity to flip off the snowmobile driver, mittens or not.

Well, in all honestly, maybe I did have the opportunity. The driver, demonstrating that he had done at least one sit-up a day, launched effortlessly off the snowmobile, and tucked himself up as he rolled harmlessly across the snow. To his credit, he did rush over to check on me before inspecting his snow machine of death. If he’d had on a helmet, I might have taken the opportunity to offer him a mitten-clothed flipping of the bird. However, the large brown eyes peering down at me from the Marlboro Man face (before the nicotine did its work) caused any thought of flipping an angry bird to flit away.

He completely caught me off guard, my thoughts equally torn between marveling at the sheer stupidity of anyone being so unprepared as to not wear a helmet and goggles, and the sheer stupidity that anyone could be so hot in real life.

“Wow. You really threw yourself into that tree didn’t you?”

Maybe check on me was an overstatement. Still, I took his outstretched hand and stood, managing to untangle myself from the branches with his help. And, again, maybe stand is an overstatement.

To my shame, I let out a pain-filled yip that was part Pomeranian and part five-year-old girl. Although, I guess I could say I howled like a shape-shifting girl who sometimes morphs into a Pomeranian. There. I made that noise. That’s more manly.

“Oh, jeez! You must have hurt your ankle.” Marlboro slipped an arm over my back. “Let me help you stand.”

I might have been tempted to point out that I neither threw myself into a tree nor twisted my ankle, that both of those had been his decisions, not mine. Instead, the arm muscles I could feel flexing as he supported my weight left me with no other words than “Thank you for helping. My name’s Paxton.”

His smile turned out to be as captivating as his eyes. “Nice to meet you. I’m Logan Charles.” He glanced down, and for a moment, I thought he was checking out my crotch. “Looks like your snowshoe is fucked.”

I’d been wearing snowshoes?

I followed his gaze.

Sure enough, the rawhide webbings were twisted and ripped through by the entangled branches.

“I didn’t know people used old-fashioned snowshoes anymore. Have you seen the new models? Might be a good investment.”

Again, my smartass reply was cut off as he bent down and began freeing my foot from the ruined snowshoe. If this is how Cinderella felt, I was beginning to understand the appeal.

Even after I was freed, though somewhat less painful, standing on my own wasn’t really an option. At least not standing and moving at the same time.

He, Logan of the two first names, motioned toward the stump. “How about I help you over there and then I check out the snowmobile?”

Real prince charming for a straight guy. “Sure, thank you.”

From my stump of a pedestal, I watched as Logan began inspecting the machine. The snow was nearly up to his knees, but he made moving look effortless. And, although the night was cold, he was clad in nothing more than black snow pants and a waffle knit shirt. He definitely did at least one sit-up a day. And, judging from the form-revealing shirt, a bunch of other stuff that I would need a gun to my head to do.

He slapped the side of the snowmobile, startling me out of my inspection. “Well, this thing is fucked. My brother’s going to kill me. Punctured something under there, judging from the different colored fluids gushing all over the place.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Nah. Know enough to drive it, but that’s it.” He glanced around. “You park close to here by chance?”

I gaped at him, my tongue finally overcoming his looks. “You do know we’re out in the middle of the woods, right?”

He appeared to not notice my sarcasm, or maybe just didn’t care. “Yeah, just wishful thinking I guess. I’ve been riding this thing for about an hour. I bet I’m a few miles from my brother’s place. That’s a lot a walking through the snow, especially when it’s this deep.”

So, I’d learned three things about Logan. He was pretty. Very pretty. Apparently cold didn’t affect him like a normal person, considering the lack of jacket, scarf, or hat. And he had a propensity to enjoy stating the obvious. Thank God he was pretty. Not the right word at all actually. The Marlboro man wasn’t pretty.

“Do you smoke?”

Oh fuck.

Yes, I just said that. Welcome to my life.

He smirked at me. Making him even cuter. Again, not the right word. “Used to. Quit several years back. Why, you a Jehovah’s Witness for the cigarette companies or something?”

Now, four things. He could be a smart-ass too.

Good.

“Not hardly. Sorry. I was ah… just thinking we might need a lighter.” Yeah. I know. Not my best.

He patted his pockets, like I might not trust him. “Nope. No lighter.”

We stared at each other for a moment.

Him probably wondering if he could just book it and leave me to freeze without getting into trouble.

Me trying to think of a solution that didn’t involve getting a straight man naked.

I won, surprisingly. “It would be a trek, for sure, but my Jeep isn’t more than two miles away. If you don’t mind helping me, we can get there, and I can drive you back to your house, errr, your brother’s house.”

Logan didn’t even pause. “Sure. That’s the best option.” He crossed the distance toward me once more.

“You might wanna get your stuff out of the snowmobile before we go, considering that the snow doesn’t seem to be letting up anytime soon.”

Confusion fell over his face, and he glanced back toward the machine before addressing me again. “What stuff?”

“Your supplies. You know. Jacket, matches, food rations.”

“Food rations?”

If I didn’t know better, I would have thought I’d heard the hint of a laugh behind his words, but it couldn’t be. I should be laughing at him. “Yeah. Food rations.” I motioned over my shoulder, indicating my backpack. “I’ve got some granola bars and such. In case something happens.”

He shrugged. “Wasn’t planning on anything happening.”

The bunching of his massive shoulders, as big as they were, didn’t distract from my amazement. “That’s the point. You never know. They’re a safety precaution. You need to be prepared.”

He was definitely grinning. “Well, I’m glad that it was a Boy Scout I nearly ran over. I’m for sure going to need a snack by the time we get to your truck.”

I didn’t respond. I also managed not to growl at being called a Boy Scout. I get so sick of that.

W
E
WALKED
for a long time in silence, at least I’m pretty sure we did. Logan could have started reciting
Hamlet
, and I wouldn’t have noticed. I barely detected the pain of my ankle. Every thought I had was directed at my cock. Demanding that it stay flaccid. That it not notice every movement of Logan’s muscles as he helped me walk, or the clean yet earthy scent that was every cliché of how a man should smell. Or how I could feel his body heat through my layers of jacket, sweater, and long johns.