Silence and Light

Unable to get to the cabin for almost two weeks because of the big snowstorm, I was anxious to get up there and see the reported accumulations of 2 feet of snow. But the warming days and high winds in the meantime had reduced the snowpile considerably, especially in the fields exposed to the sun and wind.

The two Highland cattle (below), which have been pastured in Meeker Park for at least two years, must have been happy to have the grasses become accessible, even though they are tough animals, bred to withstand the cold and winds of Scotland.

On my walk around Meeker Park, I nodded to them as they stood side by side in the late afternoon sun. In the places shaded by trees and north-facing slopes, the snow was still high. Yet what struck me more than anything—the wind patterns on the snow and the ice on the river and ponds—was the quiet.  We are so accustomed to a backdrop of noise in our culture—constant traffic outside and constant electronic sounds inside (computer, phones, etc.), that when we encounter the absence of noise, it’s startling.

Suddenly, I can hear the jay call from across the valley or the muffled sound of the creek under the ice. It’s the kind of silence that settles on you, wraps you in a comforting blanket, as if you’ve been longing for this without knowing it.

Walking back, late in the day in a valley where the sun drops behind Mount Meeker at 3:30, I was touched by the lingering sunlight. It was the last light of the day, precious because I wouldn’t see the sun’s rays for another 16 hours, when they would creep over the foothills from the east and into the valley bottom.

I wanted to reach out and hold onto this tender light as long as possible as it brushed the pine trees on the hill and the grove of aspens in the valley bottom; as it caressed the brown grasses that weren’t felled by the snow. Even the cattle seemed aware of the preciousness of this last light; the two stood facing west, as if paying homage to the last bit of warmth before their long night began.

 

Comments

[Jennifer Woodhull]

What a beautiful description, Kathy. You took me right there with you …

As for silence, I'm entirely with you there, too. I live just one block away from I-25, so the thrum of traffic is a constant backdrop. Outside my window, a stop sign invites frequent revving of motorbikes and jalopies—but after a good snowfall, it's as quiet as if I were out in the country. Every now and then a poorly equipped vehicle screams its tires against the ice trying to gain traction after the stop, but for the most part, the silence is blissful. How much more so up in the mountains!

[Rosemary Carstens]

Lovely homage to a winter's day, Kathy. That quiet after a snowfall--a retreat from the chaos of modern urban life.

[Julene Bair]

Beautiful. I can hear the quiet and feel the peace.

[Carol Christenson]

I am reminded of the strange silence we had in our neighborhood when the power was shut off for several days last month due to the threat of wildfire. Ruby and I would go out for a walk and the silence during the daylight hours was rather eerie and lovely at the same time.

[Kathy Kaiser]

Carol, I can imagine that the silence in an urban area would be eerie. I wonder if other people noticed it and how they reacted.

[Kathy Kaiser]

Jennifer, that is the wonderful thing about blizzards here. Everything shuts down, so we can return to something a little more primeval.