Chapter 4: Up and Down the Slope

The big rustic studio room in Ottawa is filled with the smell of butter, pancakes, soft scrambled eggs with milk, bacon and brewed coffee. Steve hums a tune as he makes two plates. As he sets the table, he calls for his girlfriend, Rose, to wake up and join him for breakfast. She barely moves and remains curled in bed.

Steve approaches the bed as Rose opens her eyes. She forces a smile. Her body is betraying her once again. She feels like her bones will break when she does some stretching. Her muscles tighten around her hips and neck; she feels they’re very sore.

“Good morning, my Rose.”

“‘Morning, my heart… I smell breakfast.”

“Come on, it’s gonna be a fun day. The snowmobiles will be waiting.”

“Sorry, my body aches terribly. Why don’t you have breakfast while I stay in bed?”

Rose tries to hide under the covers as the sunlight peeking into their bedroom is starting to give her a migraine. This illness has caused her to live like a vampire at times – too scared of direct sunlight, she shared with Steve before, when they were getting to know each other on a writing platform.

“You don’t seem okay… Is it fibromyalgia?” he asks with much concern.

“Uh-uh,” she hesitatingly answers. “I just feel very tired. Everything hurts.”

Now Steve recalls how rough he was with her last night. And now he regrets it. Without saying anything, he immediately searches his luggage for Tylenol in his med kit. When he finds the small kit, he takes one out and places it on a tray where he moved the two plates. Then he pours two cups of light roast Arabica into each black mug from the kitchen counter.

“A dark blend can probably help your migraine go away,” Steve says as he lays out the breakfast in bed that he prepared.

He carefully puts it on the side where he slept, then helps his sweet girlfriend sit up. Rose admires him more. His scent lingering on her skin and the way he is much gentler now than last night make her forget how her body aches, at least a little bit. When she decided to welcome this man into her life two years ago, she also vowed that she would love all of him – even the things that she might not easily understand. She believes that Steve did not want to really hurt her. It was just his reaction towards frustration about his nightmare. Even if her body receives that angst and fear, she embraces the pain. That’s what love is supposed to be, she tells herself.

When Steve notices that she can’t grip the fork and the knife firmly, he initiates to slice his own pancakes and feed her some.

“Open,” he commands.

He gives her a mouthful. To him, watching her lips as she savours the meal is so intoxicating. But he can’t start getting sexy again. He is still guilty about what he did last night.

“Listen. I… I am sorry about last night… I was foolish. I got carried away by that bad dream.”

“I know what it feels like to be scared… Uhm, I thought of losing you every time you won’t send me a message for longer than 24 hours.”

“But it was not an excuse. You were tired from all the fucking that we did since I got here, and to be rough on you was stupid. I should have let you rest.”

Rose touches his face. “I know you, and I trust you. I am sure you did not mean to go overboard.”

He gives her a reassuring grip on the same hand that touched his face. He plants a couple of kisses on it and resumes giving her some pancakes and coffee. He presses the button that closes the window blinds. His fair, almost pinkish skin seemingly glows in the dimly lit room.

“I love our breakfast in bed. Thank you,” she says with a smile.

Now he can smile again. A while ago, the cold was seeping into his skin, but with her smiling and being effortlessly sexy like this, he is a bit relieved. He has never met anyone as forgiving and kind as this woman. Sometimes, he forgets if he first got attracted to her wits, her looks, or just her ability to make him feel things that he has never felt before.

There’s this silent depth in the way they connect. That’s a weird way to describe what he feels about her. But heck, he won’t push himself to know up to which level of depth he is being pulled towards her. He just wants her to himself. Period. That’s all that matters now.

In her mind, an item on her bucket list has just been checked – to be lovingly served breakfast in bed. What is excruciating pain compared to this happiness – starting a lazy, snowy day with this blue-eyed man who cares for her passionately?

There is a kind of love that grows in silence. Probably because it is unexpected. Probably because it has always been perceived as wrong. Yet, the moment it feels like it is impossible to go on, the attraction just becomes more intense than any sane and righteous reason.

Rose knows this well. Sometimes she feels that she is still dreaming. She vowed not to commit the same mistake that her mother had. But the more she resisted Steve, the less she felt alive. He said she is his fairy, yet for her, he is love personified, if one can touch such an abstract concept.

The battle between her moral compass and this deep ache in her heart had left her stuck in bed so many times before this. She was raised to know better, but what is ‘better’, really? Her art would raise this question from time to time. Soon, she will write a book about her story with this man, who showed her what it's like to be kept.

They are pulled into this loop of passion – because they suffer when they are apart, of excitement – because they can’t just have enough of each other, and of seemingly sacred space created just for the two of them. And that space that they share is always warm, electrifying and yes, comforting.

Now he is making her some ginger tea. She watches him doing the dishes. She tells herself how manly he is for taking care of her like this. He is so different from too many men who shove machismo down their wives' or girlfriends’ throats back home.

She hopes this ginger tea will soothe her sore throat. An American package is not that easy to handle, she realised. So she hopes he will be creative if he wants to get sexy tonight. She is still a little wary that he might not be pleased when she can’t keep up with his desires.

“How do you feel now?” Steve feels a little uneasy with the unusually quiet woman that Rose is.

“Happier,” she says with a smile.

“The tea will be ready, then you can go back to sleep if you want. Or maybe you want to sketch? Although it is a bit dim there now. Is your migraine getting worse?”

Rose smiles even more, not knowing which one to answer first. If only her boyfriend knew how he makes her feel. If only this could happen every day, even after this winter getaway. She is like snow that melts in the warmth of his presence.

“I can probably read 'Stir’.”

She slowly climbs down the bed, but he is quick to rush to her side.

“Please stay in bed. Where’s the book?” he protests.

“In the pocket of my luggage. Thank you.”

He hands her the book and makes sure that the pillows support her back. Then he turns on the nightstand lamp.

“I will be spoiled if you treat me like this every day.”

“I enjoy spoiling you. And I bet your memoir will be a lot better than that.”

They hold their gaze for a few seconds, relishing their sacred space. The kettle whistles, and so Steve goes back to the kitchen and prepares her salabat, as they call ginger tea in Manila.

He sets the hot cup on the nightstand. Then he brushes her shoulder with the back of his hand.

“If you don’t feel like going out, we can stay here today. I can cook for you as you write or sketch. Then you can read to me the story that you’re working on. Shopping can wait. Even the snowmobiles.”

“Let me rest for a few hours. I am excited about riding with you.”

“Hmm. Not riding me?”

They both giggle at the naughty thought.

She takes a sip, and it is a treat. She continues to read the teal-covered paperback. “You must have some tea, too, and maybe sit with me as I read.”

“Oh, you know I don’t like tea, unless you are the tea.”

Another laughter fills the room. She quickly remembers how, in their heated texting, he would describe how he wants to drink all of her. Her pulse palpitates faster, but her body is still antagonising her longing.

“I will have to make some calls. I just want to check the projects and, of course, the kids,” Steve says.

Rose nods as he turns his back on her to walk towards the foyer. He dials the number, and he instantly sounds perkier. 

The snow is falling outside. Seeing him get closer to the light coming from the foyer is such a beautiful contrast. Her heart skips faster. This once very cold man has warmed up to her. She did not even know why.

She grabs her pen and notebook on the nightstand, and scribbles:

She is fire. He is ice.

He melts into her embrace

like a tired warrior longing for rest,

taking off his heavy armour

and dusting off his sandals

at his own door --

attended to by a pair of hands

that perfectly knead his every ache.

Tonight, she is the fire

that he needs in his freezing bed.

The helmet is gone,

so she twirls her fingers

around the locks of his auburn hair.

He savours how her fingers trail

on the bruises of his bearded chin.

Eyes linger on his face, still.

Then he hears her whisper,

"We are in your sacred space."

Rose takes a deep breath as she hears her boyfriend chuckle on the phone. Unbeknownst to her, as she puts her pen down, there’s this invisible thread tied to her heart that is connected to Steve’s. Forged in fire and dust, the crimson string floats in that cabin, glowing and sparkling, just like what the man saw in his dream.

She puts the notebook and the pen away. She lies down again, still smiling at the sound of Steve’s voice. An unexplainable warmth filled her whole being. Flashes of light fill her sight as she drifts to sleep. 

*****************************

It was a 45-minute drive to the Calabogie & District Snowmobile Club Trail. From the window, the couple surveys the area. Steve learned that the K&P Trail, a 180-kilometre route, provides easy access to the 255-kilometre trails near Calabogie. He chose this place because it is said that it is the top trail system in Ontario. He is excited to be the first person to make Rose experience the beauty of winter. And snowmobiling is a perfect way for her to savour her stay here.

For Rose, two weeks may not be enough. Everything around her looks like a dream. The pile of snow on the sidewalk, the long line of restaurants and shops at the bottom of the hill, and on top of it all, the freezing -20 degrees at three-thirty in the afternoon.

There are a lot of people gathered around a big fenced area, and the sound of snowmobile engines roars. Once Steve is done securing the parking of his car, he carries his big tunnel bag and grabs Rose’s mitten-clad hand. She smiles and takes his gladly.

“This is perfect!” she exclaims like a child.

“Well, yeah… everything, except that our winter gear prevents me from touching your hand,” he smirks.

“You have me for two weeks, Sir!” she giggles.

“Oh, don’t call me Sir now; not here. And you’re not ready,” he reminds her as they both walk towards the fenced area.

The snowmobile show attracts tourists around the world. And suddenly, Rose does not feel out of place, as she sees many Asian holidaymakers watching Canadian riders fly above the ramps. The audience exclaims and claps their hands in awe. Yet for Steve, he is more attuned to the number of times that Rose smiles in amazement. He is so relieved that she is enjoying their time, especially after having a bad flare-up this morning.

In the middle of the show, Steve checks his watch and urges Rose to head to NeXt, a highly recommended oyster and wine place. They enter the wide glass door and take their seats. He reserved a table in advance. When the food is served, Rose asks the waiter to take a photo of them. The guy responds in Filipino, and she’s not so surprised. The Filipino immigrants in Canada have dramatically increased as their needs for healthcare workers have opened better opportunities.

After an hour of enjoying salad, oysters, fruits and wine and some good folk music from a few local artists, the couple is ready for their snowmobile trail. 

The tour operator asks if both of them have already experienced driving a snowmobile. Steve nods, and Rose shakes her head.

“We can ask for a driving partner who can guide you through shorter trails,” the tour operator suggests.

“No, thanks. She will ride with me.” Steve holds Rose’s hand firmly, and she tries to hide her smile.

“Then, let us go this way so you can choose your snowmobile for two,” the man in charge responds.

“Thank you, Sir,” Rose utters.

“Your politeness makes me jealous at times,” Steve whispers.

“I didn’t call him ‘Sir’ the way I call you ‘Sir’,” she protests.

The red and black snowmobile looks big enough to accommodate them both. Steve checks the gas, the brakes, and other things before he asks Rose to hop on. Their ride is smooth and fun. He gives her an hour-long tour of the city, passing through narrow trails where they see old homes, stores and a chapel.

The sky spreads a combination of bright orange and pastel blue with a tinge of purple. And in the next hour, they are traversing slopes overlooking the lake, surrounded by beautiful pine trees that Rose only saw in postcards when she was young. It is a dream come true. Now she is hopeful that, at one point within her stay in this enchanting village, she will see the Aurora Borealis with the love of her life.

In this second hour, as they push towards the hills, the snowfall becomes heavier and heavier. Steve attentively reads the GPS, makes a quick stop and scans the place.

“There’s gonna be a surprise snowstorm!” he tells her.

“Oh, are we in trouble?”

No, you are with me. You won’t be in trouble.” Steve redirects his driving to a nearby cave.

Steve kills the engine, and the sudden silence is immediately swallowed by the rhythmic, bass-heavy howl of the wind. "Stay on the sledge for a second," he commands gently. His eyes are already scanning the limestone walls, calculating drafts and structural integrity like he’s walking a job site.

He moves with a frantic efficiency that looks like a practised dance. First, he engages the parking brake and throws the heavy travel cover over the dash, tucking the edges tight so the sugar snow won't foul the ignition or freeze the throttle.

"Rose, I need the seat," he says, reaching for the modular lever at the back of the machine. With a metallic clack, the heavy, foam-padded passenger seat comes free. He carries it to a flat shelf of rock near the mouth of the cave – far enough in to be dry, but close enough to the edge that the air stays fresh and the carbon monoxide stays out.

"Sit here," he guides her, pressing her down onto the insulated vinyl. "Don't let your boots touch the bare rock. The stone will suck the heat right out of you."

He disappears into the white veil of the storm for exactly six minutes. Rose watches his blurred silhouette as he uses a Silky folding saw to zip through dry, brittle lower branches of a nearby balsam fir. He returns with an armful of wood and a handful of shaggy birch bark he’s peeled from a fallen log.

He doesn't build a massive fire; a handyman knows a bonfire inside a cave is a death trap for the ceiling. 

Instead, he engineers a small, tight circle of stones. Behind it, he leans three thick green logs against the cave wall to create a reflector wall, slanted to bounce the heat directly toward Rose rather than letting it escape into the shadows.

He pulls a small waterproof pouch from his bib pocket. He doesn't fumble with matches; he scrapes a magnesium rod with his knife. A shower of white-hot sparks hits the birch bark, and a small, cheerful flame erupts instantly.

"There," Steve exhales, the orange light finally reaching his face. He pulls a Mylar emergency blanket from his kit and uses a strip of Gorilla Tape to secure it to the low ceiling above her. It acts like a space-age mirror, reflecting the fire's rising heat straight down onto their makeshift bed.

He kneels in front of her, his hands reaching for the heavy zippers of her snowmobile suit. "We have to get these outer layers off, Rose. If there's any sweat from the ride, it'll turn to ice the moment the fire dips. Trust me."

As the heavy Cordura fabric drops away, the cave transforms. The terrifying roar of the Ontario blizzard becomes a muffled heartbeat against the stone. The scent of woodsmoke and expensive winter gear fills the small, warm space he has engineered just for her.

Steve doesn't just stop at the fire; he treats the cave like a high-stakes renovation project. He reaches into the tunnel bag of the snowmobile and pulls out a few more essentials that only a prepared handyman would carry.

First, he snaps two reusable chemical heat packs. He doesn't just hand them to her; he wraps them in a spare pair of merino wool socks from his kit. "Put these against your lower back, Rose. It’ll keep the inflammation from that flare-up under control while the temperature drops outside."

Next, he pulls out a small roll of industrial-strength paracord. He finds two natural cracks in the limestone near the cave entrance. He jams a couple of hex nuts into the fissures and strings the cord across the opening. He hangs their damp outer jackets on the line.

"The rising heat from the fire will dry the Cordura," he explains, his voice steady and practical. "We don't want to put on frozen armour when the storm breaks."

To finish their temporary nest, he pulls out a foldable closed-cell foam pad – the kind contractors use for kneeling on concrete. He slides it under the modular snowmobile seat, doubling the insulation between Rose and the freezing ground.

Finally, he pulls out his Leatherman multi-tool. He uses the small pliers to adjust the position of one of the reflector logs at the back of the fire. He’s fine-tuning the throw of the heat, ensuring it hits the Mylar blanket on the ceiling at the perfect angle to bounce back onto her.

"There," he says, finally sitting beside her on the padded seat. The orange glow of the fire catches the silver of the emergency blanket above them, creating a shimmering, warm canopy. The roar of the K&P Trail blizzard is just a muffled thud against the stone now.

He reaches for her hand, his calloused handyman fingers finally able to touch her skin without the barrier of winter gear. "One hour, Rose. The storm will peak and pass. Until then, you're safe."

The heat from the reflector fire, trapped by the Mylar blanket above them, creates a pocket of air that is easily twenty degrees warmer than the blizzard outside. Steve helps Rose peel off her heavy, damp outer suit. Underneath, she is wearing charcoal-grey merino wool thermals that cling to her skin.

"Better?" he asks, his voice dropping an octave as he sheds his own heavy bibs. He is down to a black compression shirt that shows the tension in his shoulders.

"Much better," Rose whispers. The salabat has warmed her from the inside, and the flare-up in her joints has softened into a dull, manageable hum. And Rose’s eyes are fixed on her boyfriend’s muscular body. She bites her lower lip in awe of how he transformed this cave into their sanctuary.

Steve reaches for the paracord he strung earlier. He drapes their heavy suits over the line, creating a curtain that blocks their view of the cave mouth. Now, the only world that exists is the six-foot circle of orange light, the padded snowmobile seat beneath them, and the shimmering silver canopy overhead.

He pulls her close, his hands sliding over the soft wool of her thermals. There is a primal, electric contrast between the lethal cold of the K&P Trail screaming just inches away and the sweat-slicked warmth of their skin as they move together in that enclosed space.

Steve checks the fire one last time, his handyman eyes satisfied with the steady, smokeless glow. He turns to Rose. The salabat has put a flush in her cheeks, and the warmth of the cave has finally stilled the tremors in her hands.

"Lay back," he murmurs. He guides her onto the modular seat he’s positioned over the foam pad. It’s narrow, forcing her to stay centred, her spine cushioned by the same professional-grade foam that protected her during the bumpy ride.

As she settles onto the fleece lining of his jacket, the Mylar blanket just inches above her head catches the firelight, turning the grey limestone ceiling into a shimmering vault of gold.

Steve moves over her, bracing his weight on his forearms so his chest just grazes the charcoal wool of her thermals. The space is tight – engineered for efficiency – which means there is nowhere for her to go but closer to him.

"The stone is freezing," he whispers against her ear, his breath hot in the chilled cave air. "But you... you're perfect."

Outside, a massive shelf of snow slides off the cave’s lip with a muffled thump, sealing them further into their private world. Steve doesn't even flinch. He knows his machine is parked right, his fire is vented, and for the hour or so, the only thing that matters is the woman beneath him.

He reaches for the hem of her thermal top, his calloused fingers finally finding the soft, warm skin of her waist. The prepared guy disappears, replaced entirely by the man who has been waiting all day to have her completely to himself again.

She touches his face with a warmer hand now, and she guides his hand to caress her breasts and then her mound. “I know I am always safe with you. Now, I… I want to give you warmth.”

The lovers steal an hour of passion. The cave is filled with their moans and gasps. The fire that they have within feels warmer than the fire that lights this place. Steve tries to be gentler as he buries himself in her. Her walls ache, but she clenches him in perfect rhythm.

Their lips touch as they move from a world of survival into one of pure, unhurried sensation.

Under the shimmer of the Mylar ceiling, the air is thick with the scent of woodsmoke and the lingering, spicy heat of the salabat. Steve’s hands, usually so focused on the precision of a handyman’s work, are now lyrical and fluid, mapping every curve of her body as if he’s memorising a masterpiece. He is slow, deliberate, letting the friction of their skin create a warmth that far outmatches the small fire at the cave's mouth.

Rose pulls him closer, her fingers tangling in his hair, her breath hitching as he finds the perfect rhythm. She isn't just seeking warmth; she is giving it back, her body a soft, defiant hearth against the freezing stone. For that hour, time stops. The ache in her walls is a sweet, grounding pressure, a reminder that they are alive and vibrant while the world outside is frozen. The red strings that are invisible to their naked eyes seem to grow thicker and plentier, binding their hearts closer.

As they reach the peak together, the cave seems to expand, the fire's golden light catching the sweat on their skin until they look like figures carved from bronze. They collapse into each other, hearts hammering against chests in a shared, frantic beat that slowly settles as they recover their strength and make love again and again.

When their afterglow takes hold, the silence that follows is absolute. Steve stays over her for a long moment, his forehead pressed against hers, before he rolls to the side, careful to keep them both on the insulated modular seat. He pulls his heavy Cordura jacket over them like a makeshift quilt.

"Listen," he whispers, his voice rasping.

Rose stills. The rhythmic howling that had defined the last two hours has vanished. There is no more whistling at the cave's lip, no more muffled thud of snow. The storm has broken.

Steve reaches for his GPS. The screen glows a soft, clinical blue in the orange cave. "The front has passed. Look at the barometric pressure – it's stabilising."

He sits up slightly, peeling back the curtain of their snowmobile suits. Beyond the cave mouth, the world has been transformed into a silent, crystalline kingdom. The air is so cold and clear it feels like breathing diamonds. And there, hanging just above the horizon of the pine trees, is a faint, ethereal ribbon of shimmering green light.

"Rose," he breathes, pointing toward the sky. "The Aurora. You said you wanted to see it."

She leans against him, wrapped in the warmth of his jacket and the fading heat of their passion, watching the Northern Lights dance over the silent K&P Trail.

“It’s so beautiful,” she mutters.

Their fingers intertwine as they see the sky dancing in all its glory. The handyman had promised she’d be safe, but he hadn't told her he’d give her the stars, too.