A Qiviut Crisis at Christmas

Long before the age of Fitbits, counting steps, and $200 sneakers, I was a walker. Not a runner. Not even a fast walker. Not someone who walks with outstretched arms frantically carving the pavement with titanium poles or lugging five-pound weights to burn an extra 16 calories. Just a walker. I no longer walk as far or as fast as I used to, and the only thing that comes from walking in subzero temperatures is a nose that doesn’t thaw until spring.

Of the thousands of miles I have logged over the years, there are surprisingly few moments that stand out. Yes, there was that time with the bear, but it was distant. And another time, when I got a little off-trail in the mountains and feared I would need to contact Search and Rescue to bring me home. But overall, nothing particularly sensational until last year, when I had the ultimate wild fiber crisis. (Yes, there really is such a thing.)

I have often said that if, heaven forbid, my house is on fire, I won’t reach for my jewelry or family photos; I will reach for my qiviut—the luxurious fiber from the musk ox. Given my profession, this should not come as a surprise. I have only a few items, which makes them that much more precious. They are also equal parts pricey and priceless.

Part of my regular winter walking wear includes a handspun, handknit qiviut neckwarmer, which I purchased directly from an Alaskan Inuit a few years back. If you have ever visited Oomingmak, the well-known qiviut shop in Anchorage, this is not what I am talking about. They produce beautiful nachaqs, aka “smoke rings” or neckwarmers. But they are not handspun, and they contain barely an ounce of fiber. My neckwarmer probably weighs more than your average cardigan. It is sinfully soft to the touch. I just might be buried in it.

Thankfully, living in Maine gives me plenty of opportunities to wear it. But depending on just how cold it is or isn’t, and just how far I walk, it can turn into a neckhotter.  And so, off it comes mid-constitutional, stuffing it into my pocket next to the used Kleenex and the lip balm that went through the wash.

Last Christmas season, I went to meet a friend for dinner and as I drove down my driveway, which is long and winding through the woods, my headlights caught a dead animal lying by the edge of the pavement. My first thought was absolute anguish. I have a “pet” porcupine, Penelope, who has a penthouse in my barn now that there are no longer any cashmere goats in residence. Frequently, I see Penelope waddling about the property, and it always makes my heart smile. She seems quite content in her spiny little world; I rather hope we grow old together. And so, imagine my horror at seeing her lying motionless 50 yards in the distance.

I slowed down, and already I could feel the tears starting to form, and then I realized it was my neckwarmer! It had fallen out of my pocket. The relief was so strong, there was another wave of tears. Quickly, I hopped out of the car, mindful of my step among the icy patches, and as I bent down to fetch it, I discovered it was frozen to the ground. I mean frozen harder than a chicken breast covered in freezer burn. I tried running my finger around the perimeter, thinking I could somehow gently lift it off like candle wax. Clearly not. I am not sure it could have been more permanently affixed by a professional welder.

I wasn’t about to phone my friend and try to explain that I would need to cancel our engagement because there was a neckwarmer stuck to my driveway. So, I got back in the car and prayed no ill would come until the next day.

In the DIY world, there is an answer for everything, and most likely a series of YouTube videos to guide you through. I didn’t even try Googling “remove frozen qiviut neckwarmer from driveway.” Although just for grins, I should see what ChatGPT has to say. Instead, I got a few clean dish towels and a hot water bottle. (I am sure many of you would have done the same.)

It seemed only logical that if I placed a dish towel on top of the neckwarmer, and then put the hot water bottle over that, the ice would gradually melt without causing any shrinkage. It was ingenious. I could already imagine making my own YouTube video. I knelt down and began the process, with only slightly less ritual than a heart transplant. I should mention—again—I love this neckwarmer. After 10 minutes there was no change. Not so much as a drop of water had been released. Perhaps I was being too cautious. Perhaps I needed to remove the dish towel and apply the water bottle directly to the patient.

We all know the fastest way to kill your cashmere sweater is to wash it in hot water; I needed to go slow. It was also not lost on me that if I did not have a very long driveway, I would soon see blue lights flashing. There was zero chance that if a neighbor had seen me bent over a neckwarmer, gently applying a hot water bottle like I was swabbing a gunshot wound, they wouldn't have phoned the police.

After half an hour, I was frustrated and cold. My so-called brilliant idea had failed, and fear was beginning to set in. In the light of day, it no longer resembled a dead porcupine, more like a pile of stale twigs and leaves. What happened if the UPS man drove over it, mutilating it beyond recognition?

I marched off to the garage and grabbed one of those orange safety cones, the kind that are always lining miles of highway when there seems to be no emergency or construction in sight. (This was not my first driveway crisis, but I will save that story for another time.) I put the cone over the neckwarmer, satisfied in the knowledge that short of cordoning off all 25 acres, it was adequately protected.

Back inside and warming up with a cup of tea, I began reviewing my options. What was wrong with simply pouring hot water over it? Voila! Problem solved. But I am so hardwired not to use hot water on anything that hasn’t been derived from pure acrylic, I just couldn’t do it. (For the fiber newbie, acrylic is not what you wear to stay warm … or cool.)

I looked at the 10-day weather forecast and saw that temperatures were expected to rise in six days; there was also a 70% chance of rain. Maybe, just maybe, I could wait this out and let nature take care of nature. The slow rise in temperature combined with the rain would surely work.

For 20 years, I raised cashmere goats, reaping every reward and enduring every mishap—you never get one without the other. I have pulled on muck boots and coveralls over my flannel nightie, trudging out to the barn to check on an ailing goat in the cold of night. On one occasion, I brought a small baby goat back into my bed. The temptation to check on my neckwarmer was strong. But I persevered and stayed inside.

Several friends came to visit in the ensuing days, after all, it was the Christmas season. I was just waiting for someone to ask, “What’s with the cone on your driveway?” so I could share my desperation and my great resolve.

But no one asked. No one even gave it so much as a passing nod.

As predicted, the following Tuesday brought warmer temperatures and a heavy rain. I charged down the driveway, lifted the cone, and easily removed my well-drenched neckwarmer from the pavement. A small amount of dirt and detritus had been frozen inside the cone, which had now melted and washed onto the qiviut. The patient sustained only superficial wounds. After careful rinsing and a very short convalescence of lying completely flat on the kitchen counter, my winter costume was once again complete.

The current holiday forecast is mild. No Nor’easters are expected that could knock out the power for days, if not weeks. Penelope appears to be in good health. I have filled her stocking with some fruit and her favorite berries. She loves Christmas.

I am sure there will be a few walks in the coming days, and my precious neckwarmer will be swaddling my neck no matter how hot I get. I would like to avert another crisis. Who knew that qiviut and quills could be so mistakenly intertwined?