Cabin Journal: A Fleeting Landscape

Arriving at the cabin this week I was greeted with a rare treat: ice crystals covered the whole landscape: every needle on the pine trees, every dried plant stalk, every branch of the willow bushes and aspen trees. With a sheath of light enfolding every plant, the effect was dazzling. On the ponderosa pines, the ice encased around the green needles turned the trees a sapphire blue that was paler than the sky, casting the whole valley and hillsides in a blue light.

I think this transformation was caused by a rare fog when conditions are just right: near-freezing water droplets attach to the vegetation and immediately turn into ice—a phenomenon called rime.

Because I knew this wouldn’t last, I ignored my work projects and set out as soon as I could to walk around the valley, stopping every few minutes to take in this unfamiliar and glittering landscape. But as soon as the sun started to warm the earth and the wind arrived to shake the tree branches, the rime started to disappear. I watched, half with sadness and half with enchantment, as small bits of ice flew off the trees, filling the air with sparkles, as if someone had thrown down shards of glass.

By the time I returned to the cabin, it was almost gone, and the valley had returned to its normal winter state. No matter how hard I tried to hang on to this short interlude of beauty, it had already melted away.