Driving up to the cabin this week, the winds were strong enough to nudge my car off the road and onto the shoulder. At the cabin, the driveway was blocked by a limb that had been blown off a nearby pine tree. The winds had torn off the sign on the cabin and tossed it into the side yard, and ripped the wind chimes from the post on the tree in front of the cabin. Even the door to the cellar had been blown open, exposing the underside of the cabin. Not even the birds dared to come out in these strong, destructive winds, probably above 60 mph with gusts of up to 90.
It was one of the bleakest landscapes I’ve experienced at the cabin. Much of the snow from the past month had melted and froze in a repeated cycle, cementing the snow into hard shapes. Not just hard but dirty, as the winds had picked up the loose dirt from bare spots and scattered it across the remaining snow, now covered in black grit. From the road, I saw several tall pine trees blown over and smashed in several pieces.
Around this time of the year and on days such as this, I’m so desperate for any signs of new life that I almost hallucinate colors for the landscape. Looking out my window that morning, at first glance I saw the tender new leaves of aspens, but we’re still at least three months away from spring here. At second glance, I’m looking at the just slightly paler needles of a fir tree, lighter than the ponderosas around it.
The next day the winds were a bit calmer, although the skies were gray and ponderous, and the thin clouds blanched everything. Even Mount Meeker was just a pale smudge on the horizon. I had to force myself to leave the warmth and coziness of the cabin for my afternoon walk.
Once outside, I look for the solace of nature. I find it in the lone cry of an unseen bird, in the gray and white clouds building up that resemble spring rain clouds, in the slight smell of moisture in the air, and in the chickadees’ cheerful cries, as they dart from tree to tree.
In the fenced field, I’m happy to see the two Scottish Highland cattle, which I look for on each walk. Even these animals that are bred for the worst of Scottish gales and cold are bowed by the weather and huddle on the ground together. As I approach, one stands up, as if to guard the other. Perhaps this is a couple, and he is protective of her. I’m overwhelmed by the tenderness of these large animals with their sad-looking eyes.
Down the road, in a thicket of aspen, trees that have been felled in previous windstorms are now held up by other trees that seem to cradle them in their arms.
There is this now: the tenderness of nature when everything is harsh.
Oh, brrrr. I don't miss that wind. Hang in, spring will come.
Posted by: shoney | February 18, 2019 at 09:40 AM
That picture is so precious! Poor cattle at least in Scotland they have the Gulf Stream. This winter has been cold!
Posted by: Sally | February 18, 2019 at 08:48 PM
This has been the snowiest and coldest winter that I can remember. The blizzard yesterday had 60 mph winds. It made for some challenging snow shoveling at times. There was nearly 8 inches of new snow to shovel on Sunday morning. Monday morning, it is now -9 degrees with -29 windchill.
Posted by: Brent | February 25, 2019 at 05:10 AM