Winter Light

Suddenly, it seems, after months of warm, beautiful sunny days, winter descended in all its bleakness. I arrived at the cabin under cloudy skies, temperatures in the 20s, cold winds, the ground covered in snow, any traces of grasses mostly buried. The pond and creeks are not just frozen but smothered in snow.

Chipmunks and ground squirrels have gone undercover, and the only birds I see are the blue Steller’s jays. Where have the juncos and nuthatches gone, which were zig-zagging up and down the ponderosas just a few short weeks ago?

Last week, it was still autumn, or pretended to be. The willow bushes in the valley bottom were a palette of rust, bronze, gold and green. In some vision of plenitude, the tall, golden grasses filled the valley. But this week, they’re squashed down by the snow, caught in its grip.

Inside my cabin, after days of temperatures dipping into the teens at night, all the water bottles had frozen (plus the squash I brought up here to store, which I thought would be safe in the refrigerator). The cabin was solidly cold and only grudgingly warmed up from 25 to 50 degrees in the four hours I sat at my computer in my parka and gloves, patiently waiting.

So everything becomes more difficult. I must wade through the snow to get to the pump for a pail of water to wash the dishes. Getting dressed for a hike was a half hour undertaking— bringing my cold boots in from the car to warm up, thawing out the long underwear and parka that had been in the unheated bedroom. Already, I miss those days of grabbing a water bottle and my camera and heading out the door, sauntering carelessly on my hikes. Now, I must tread cautiously on the icy roads or punch my way through deeper snow in the woods. 

And yet this morning, I woke up to sunshine, brilliant sunshine that filled the valley, and reached into the cabin. How could I have forgotten that clear light that spills across the white snow? Or how bracing the air feels on a cold, snowy morning?

Comments

[Jennifer Woodhull]

What a gorgeous photo, the shadows of the trees on the untroubled snow … Your post makes me long for my old snowshoes, and the freedom to go anywhere.

[shoney]

Your photos make me feel that I am right there with you. Thank you!

[Brent Zeinert]

Remembering my winter treks up north to my parent's cabin on Roberts Lake, Wisconsin. A cabin with almost no insulation, no winter plumbing, and only an outhouse. Would have to stoke the furnace and kindle a fire in the fireplace immediately after arriving. Many times, had to snow shovel huge drifts before being able to park the car or shovel out several inches of snow before leaving. It was a winter adventure! But also remember the beautiful sunrises and sunsets over the snow covered lake. The snap and thunder of the thick lake ice cracking at night. Listening to the snow crunching as I walk down to the spring to fetch water on a wondrous moonlit night. Ice skating in the afternoon sunshine around the lake and snow shoeing on the forest trails as a light snowfall tickles my nose. The fishermen pan frying the catch of the day in the evening while enjoying a cocktail or two. Playing cards and shaking dice after supper. Claiming the bed next to the fireplace. Nice memories.

[Kathy Kaiser]

Brent, you captured that experience perfectly. Somehow, the experience of being in the woods or mountains in winter is worth all the hassle. Your remembrance also takes me back to the occasional winter trips we would take to the family cabin in Wisconsin, especially using the outhouse when it was 20 degrees below zero. Now that's cold.

[Julene Bair]

Both your post, Kathy, and Brent's comments remind me that there's a price to pay for the joys of winter, and I think we appreciate them all the more for enduring the privations.