a trail in the snow
It is still morning. The thermometer is now up to an even zero. 32 degrees below the freezing point. The sun has been struggling to warm our world for several hours. Faintly, it has. Inside our warm cabin, we dress. This takes a while in winter; a long drawn out process that makes me wonder if my time would not be better spent doing something else. However, attempting to spend time in this wintery world devoid of this artificial insulation is not a good option.
We fasten on our snowshoes to our bulky boots, the rubber strapping frozen in the crispy morning air. We too are cold and tight. Our breath blows smoke like peaceful dragons. Our eyes burn from the cold, dry air.
Up the trail, through the back gate and into the woods we walk. Each step is deep and weighty. We move slowly, a gradual progress, an unhurried pattern of lift and place and sink and settle into a foot or more of soft snow. We think of nothing but this design of heavy strides and the white path before us. Complete silence. The powder muffles the sounds of our bulky snowshoes and poles as they are buried again and again in white with each progressing step. Our breathing becomes a strong and steady pulse. It is all that we hear. We stop, stand still, hold our breath, and absorb the silence.
Deep in the woods the trees are heavy with snow. The wind has not blown in here, knocking the heavy loads from the limbs. The trees bow with grace and elegance. We bow low in return, in due respect.
There is life all around us, hiding in the secret spaces that are more places than the known and obvious. Tracks of rabbits, tree squirrels, snowshoe hare cross the path before us. We see a coyote track leading to the base of a big spruce tree. The track circles around the tree in a perfect “O” then returns directly to the exact trail that took him to the tree. His tracks return in his own track perfectly. A necessary conservation of energy. The snow is deep. We all learn to get around, and when to remain holed in.
Our steps descend into a draw and cross over where the frozen creek was forming, just days ago. It is nothing now but a soft layer of undulating snow, waves of white powder, covering the thick and heavy ice that we know is not far below. There is no sound of the creek now. Frozen below, and insulated above, it adds to the silence of the woods.
Suddenly we break into the open expanse of the park and can see what feels like forever. We stare at peaks we have climbed, on foot, on snowshoe, on horse, perhaps even on snowmobile. So far away becomes so close with memories of the birds that sing on the slopes, the flowers that bloom in late summer, the view that we see from there looking back to here.
Our world becomes small and comfortable. We are no longer chilled. We are thankful for ears to soak in this silence, eyes to gaze out in wonder, bodies to tolerate the elements and carry us to these magnificent places.
in the parks above the ranch