Cabin Journal: Shadows and Light, Once Again

In Wild Basin last week, there was barely enough snow to ski on on the road, which is closed to cars in winter. Yet in the woods and on the creek, where the winds can’t as easily blow it away, the snow has piled up.

Sometimes I avoid this trail because it’s dark, and in the winter, especially on cold days, I crave the sun. Alongside the North St. Vrain creek, the conifers are tightly packed in this narrow valley, so little sunlight comes through.

But the snow creates its own light, and the contrast with the darkness all around lends its own brilliance to this trail. The creek itself alternates between light and dark: pools of almost black water emerge from the layers of snow.

In winter the landscape has come down to a few strong elements: the trees, the boulders, the snow, the creek. It’s all shapes and forms and shadows and light.

I’m drawn to the ephemeral shadows, which change every minute as the sun moves across the sky. The sunlight casts the stark branches of the trees on the snow and softens them, make them something more ethereal. And because the light is always changing, I see a different landscape coming back down the road than when I went up. A grouping of boulders and trees or a patch of water on the creek suddenly reveals itself.

The landscape has a solemnity to it now, as if I were in church, with the light streaming through the stained glass windows. But the windows here are the needles and branches of the softly swaying pine trees.

When I stop to observe and listen, I hear the water running, not just from the St. Vrain, but from the smaller streams that feed into it. When the creeks are muffled by the snow, it sounds like a heartbeat, as if the creek is the lifeblood of this valley.