If only you could hear the sound of snow.
Hakuin Ekaku
Deep cold, falling snow and ice... One expects such things in February. There are times when skies at sunrise are clear
and bright blue, and they seem to go on and on forever. More often,
heavy clouds conceal the sky, and all the north is a tempest of blowing white.
I've written of such winter days before: fey intervals when a
winter squall appears out of nowhere, and the lake and its frozen gorge are so quiet one can snowflakes falling and coming to rest among the trees. When
asked why I live where I do, I usually mention the perfect flaming autumns here, but I should be talking about the glorious winters. Every single one is a marvel.
I arose early a few days ago, looked out the window at the storm coming in and fumed silently. It was not
the weather that made
me surly and a tad morose, it was the absence of light. Clouds covered the sky from horizon to horizon, and the sun was
completely blotted out. This far on in winter, one will do almost anything for a little light.
The cure for the winter peeves and gloomies is simple - get
out the parka and heavy gloves, brew a flask of tea, grab snowshoes
and camera, then make tracks for the gorge above Dalhousie Lake. The
winding road to the lake is
slick with ice and treacherous driving, but the scenery is grand, and balm to a
winter weary spirit too, an essential element in this ardent
and arduous journey into the wild.
The trees on the heights are manitous who stand looking over the frozen landscape
in robes of white. Behind them, all is blue sky and blowing snow. Sometimes
standing up there feels like being in the high Himalayas, but, of course, no
trees grow on the roof of the world. From the edge of the lake below, one sees little or nothing of the far shore.
The gorge's granite walls amplify sound wonderfully, and the north wind
speaks (or sings) volumes as it makes its way down the deep corridor of
old stone.
Joints protesting, I bend to look closely at the snow on spruces at the
bottom of the ravine, and every suspended crystal is a sea of light. When I catch a
flake on my tongue, it tastes like champagne. Who was that flaky female
mourning the absence of light a few hours ago? One thing is certain -
the English language could use a few more words for wonders like falling snow.
