The Halloween night was a mess outside. A mahogany table reflected the bottle, the shot glasses, and the distorted faces of Tom Telluride and Harry the Camel, best of ski fellows. Between the three of us there was a strong bond of the mountains, and also the fellowship of our lifestyle.

Gale force winds forced sheets of snow against the windows and blew down the chimney into the embers of a complaining fire.

Tom spoke. "When the mountain lion hibernates and the winter winds come moaning around the bunkhouse, a mountain man turns to his woodpile," were Tom's thoughts as he deliberately passed the bottle around the table. "A fire may be the one thing in nature that is simultaneously a stimulant and a sedative. It's the best thing to counter cabin fever.

"If you have to stay inside, a good fire stirs the memory and the imagination, suspends time, and cleans old connections that have rusted. A fire is the best antidote for cabin fever and the last refuge for weary, outraged eyes. It's the only visual delicacy that hobos in train yards, huddled around an oil drum, share on equal terms with a duchess in her grand salon. If the ghost of Snowshoe Thompson were here now, he'd tell you the same thing."

The storm seized his last sentence and flung it against the opposite wall. The house strained against the wind. The week of earlier storms, a slick road in and out of Palisades Tahoe, and danger across the backcountry were keeping us cooped up all day.

Somewhere in the distance, a wailing sound broke the silence of the noisy night. It was one of those incomprehensible, nocturnal sounds that sometimes arise in the surrounding woods.

"I remember the last time I caught cabin fever," Harry spoke up, staring into the fire. "I was in an old cabin near Big Bend staying with my girlfriend. A weeklong storm had kept us bottled inside that musty cabin for days. The log home had belonged to her grandfather who had been lost in an avalanche in the nearby backcountry.

"It was late into the evening..." Harry slowed. "I found myself alone in the living room taping some CDs. She was upstairs. I happened to glanc into the mirror over the fireplace...and a man was staring back at me from the doorway of the dining room behind me." Harry went even slower.

"I whipped around. He was wearing a 1940s-style, brown- tweed ski outfit. I froze. A soft voice whispered, "Don't be afraid. I was cold. I'm sorry to have disturbed you."

Harry continued, looking down. "The man sorta slid sideways behind-or into--the doorframe...and slowly out of sight. He was not a burglar, not in that weather. I didn't move for minutes."

"I finally tip-toed over and looked behind the door. Nothing.

"A little later, drink in hand, I played back the tape I had been recording at the moment the man appeared. The music became extremely distorted by an eerie, deep, grinding noise."

"My girlfriend and I told her. She said it was cabin fever," he smiled, pensively. "Pass the bottle."

Outside, the darkness continued to smother the cabin. In the wind something loose near the house beat regularly against the log wall like a spirit tapping.

"Cabin fever makes me think of food," I offered, tossing more wood on the fire. "I remember when I was a kid learning to ski at a small area in Quebec. At the base lodge there were wooden benches and tables for lunch. One bench stood further from the others, close to a tree where I always leaned my skis.

"A frail elderly man was a regular at the bench each Sunday. Mr. Wiesenthal was his name. He was an Orthodox Jewish fellow who dressed impeccably and carried a newspaper and a bag with an apple, cookies, and a thermos of tea.

"He always waited patiently during the afternoon for his grandkid who raced with a ski club. The man and I became Sunday friends. I would eat the lunch my mother prepared next to him on the bench. With a stainless-steel pocketknife, he'd peel and core his apple, passing slices to me.

"Two nice, spring-like Sundays passed without his visiting. I began to worry. One day, unexpectedly, during a ski week with no school, I was leaving the lodge and spied Mr. Wiesenthal. I called to him, asking where he had been and wondering what he was doing there on a weekday.

"He never answered, but walked over and took his place on the bench. Realizing that he didn't have his bag of food, I ran into the cafeteria to get him an apple.

"When I returned, I was disappointed to find the bench empty. I noticed and picked up Mr. Wiesenthal's knife, clean and shiny, from beneath the bench.

"That night, back home at dinner, my father was casually reading the local daily while he was talking to me about my day. He suddenly stopped.

"'I thought you just told me that you saw Mr. Wiesenthal today.' He paused and looked at me. Dad continued: 'In the paper here it says there was a funeral for Mr. Wisenthal. He died yesterday morning, and orthodox funerals must take place before sundown of the day after the death....'

"My dad lowered the paper and looked at me sternly.

"'Did you really go skiing today or have you been lying to us? What did you do with the money for the lift ticket? Are we going to have to start supervising you on these ski days?'

"Oh man, I said, shrugging my shoulders, but I couldn't explain. Dad never did believe me."
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Thinking back to that Halloween in Palisades Tahoe with my two buddies, I think it's true: Cabin fever can make you remember odd stuff. But I still have Mr. Wiesenthal's knife.


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