The darkening days of late fall are far behind us. By December my body has adjusted — finally, grudgingly — to the short days and long cold nights. I’ve landed at acceptance, yes, but the transition is all beer, bread, and blankets. The first couple of months of this new year bring snug sweaters and decidedly tighter jeans. Now, in the noticeably different February light, I seek balance again.
The afternoons are perceptibly longer, the air somehow both bluer and yellower. The sun dips below the horizon just a little bit later, leaving a glow that is just a little bit more ochre. And the snow is spectacular: storm after storm has us fully wrapped in white fluffy goodness. We endure the freezing rain, hard pellets on our cheeks, icing everything before being smothered by more than a foot of new snow. The hillsides and open meadows are pristine, gently windblown into ribbons and ripples just begging to be quietly admired, perhaps painted, then skied through.
We are watching the full February moon rise over Breadloaf mountain before the sun has even set. Hours later, the world is as bright as midday, moon shadows drifting across untouched powder and temperatures slipping into the single digits, then zero, and ultimately settling at 14 below.
The morning sun does little to warm us so we move quickly, frigid air stinging my nostrils. The going is tough in deep snow for a dog with short legs, but Lewie hops and bounds about, happily inspecting low hanging branches and the base of a tree where a red squirrel climbed to safety. He buries his nose in the fresh prints of a passing coyote, following the scent away from our regularly traveled path. The coyote has dropped toward the river below. After a few minutes Lewie lifts his head, suddenly aware of the distance between us and bounces back up the hill to where I have continued on my skis, ducking under heavy, snow-laden hemlocks.
It is painfully, heart-achingly beautiful, the way the natural world can be sometimes. Branches are completely encased in smooth translucent ice. I break off a tip and suck on it, tasting the bitter bud as the ice melts on my tongue. Everything is silent and still in a world of pure winter white.
White flakes drift lazily at first, then shift to a sideways path as the wind picks up. Low heavy clouds have descended, blocking Breadloaf mountain completely from sight. A single raven calls us all the way home.