Crawling up the steep, narrow steps, I test the hatch. As expected, it is buried beneath heavy snow. I kneel on the top step and shoulder the hatch like Atlas hefting the earth, pushing slowly with all my strength. Being forced to take action now is actually a fortunate turn of events, for I have drifted toward lethargy. Any later might have been too late.
Snow fills the cockpit.
The covering tent tarp slats like the crack of rapid rifle fire. I crawl outside, pulling the bucket behind me. Fully exposed now, I push through the frenzied air to the disposal pit. When the heavy cylinder of ice slides out of the bucket, I am caught off-guard and the fierce wind rips the bucket from my hands. It is an essential piece of equipment.