Mulling Mullets
By BLAKE MAXWELL

In Steamboat, the unifying theme of my winter's best days is this: reflexive choking. There were four occasions this month—three near the same shadowy cove of trees—where, as I dropped into a deep turn, snow funneled down my throat and momentarily blocked my airway. I shot up, flustered and coughing in a brief state of panic. Just like that day at the pool.

Yep, the City Pool. One bygone summer day I was eavesdropping on two mullet-heads discussing "ee-foria," as they put it, the state of peaceful elation they believed could be experienced during drowning. The blonde mullet, Stu, said that survivors, returning from the crossroads with tales to tell, report that when the lungs become saturated a complete tranquility settles the mind. Scholars may banter over what triggers the state—prenatal memories or the mind fortifying itself against death—but to me Stu's theory was bogus. I was in a position to know, too. I was the one standing too close to the mullets.

The hilljack’s needed a guinea pig, and before I could escape I was promptly held underwater for a spell long exceeding my anaerobic limit. I thrashed wildly. Any observing scientist would have recorded my reaction more consistent with panic rather than euphoria. Freed momentarily and racing for the deck, I heard one backwoods Edison postulate, "He wud'n under long enuf." I sprinted off, red-faced and sopping wet, before a second experiment ensued.

Funny how tastes change.

Those memories of temporary asphyxiation are etched deep. The difference is that on snowy days from now on I won't run for home. When that shadowy cove of trees again harbors a deep collection, I'll return for another bout of reflexive choking. Any observing scientist will record my wide grin just before submergence.

Who but the perverse knew that suffocating could be such a rip?

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