Mist Rising Off Snow
Our curvaceously voluptuous mounds of snow are finally dissipating, albeit slowly. Stepping onto the snow-hardened trails in the ravine is fraught with the perils of dropping thigh-deep into innocent-appearing, but altered snow pack, melting from beneath.
Finally, we've achieved a high of 8 balmy degrees, along with a nice wind packing a punch up to 60 kmh. We had early morning rain this day, then drizzle, then the opportunity to embark on our daily ravine walk. We're exercising the usual caution to avoid dog droppings littering the trail.
The narrow path is where companion dogs now choose to deposit, obviously disdaining that deep sinking experience when venturing politely and purposefully beyond the dense pack of the trail. I keep a keen eye out for this particular type of detritus, but in an unwary second, there it was, I stepped fully onto a redolent pile.
For a while, as I tread along the path, I leave bright orange-brown bits patterned after the cleats pulled over my boots. The pattern persists, though I attempt time and again, to leverage my weight to the side, shoving the malodorous boot into the deep snow, to remove the offending bits. Gradually it becomes lighter in deposit and in colour.
As we lope down the first long hill into the ravine mist rises lazily in a narrow, fluctuating band above the snow, like shallow ghostly drifts, emulating the snow itself. At the creek level the mist appears as a gentle fog, enveloping everything, us included, in its damp embrace. The landscape down there is fully veiled, half hidden in light fog.
I look back to see my husband emerging from it, as we cross the first bridge, still densely packed with snow, and begin to climb the opposite hill. It appears we won't eclipse the previous record snowfall set back in the winter of 1970-71. We're short by a mere 18 centimeters. We don't mind, we've had enough snow for one winter.
The creek is in full melt, roiling and muddy, hurrying along its watery path, taking possession of all that the early morning rain, the warming temperatures deposit for its swollen delectation. We can smell spring, it's there on the cusp of being. But we know too how nature capriciously loves to tantalize us.
There will be more days of freezing rain, light snow, and colder temperatures before winter slinks back for good, allowing spring its entrance. This particular clock, though, doesn't turn backward.
Finally, we've achieved a high of 8 balmy degrees, along with a nice wind packing a punch up to 60 kmh. We had early morning rain this day, then drizzle, then the opportunity to embark on our daily ravine walk. We're exercising the usual caution to avoid dog droppings littering the trail.
The narrow path is where companion dogs now choose to deposit, obviously disdaining that deep sinking experience when venturing politely and purposefully beyond the dense pack of the trail. I keep a keen eye out for this particular type of detritus, but in an unwary second, there it was, I stepped fully onto a redolent pile.
For a while, as I tread along the path, I leave bright orange-brown bits patterned after the cleats pulled over my boots. The pattern persists, though I attempt time and again, to leverage my weight to the side, shoving the malodorous boot into the deep snow, to remove the offending bits. Gradually it becomes lighter in deposit and in colour.
As we lope down the first long hill into the ravine mist rises lazily in a narrow, fluctuating band above the snow, like shallow ghostly drifts, emulating the snow itself. At the creek level the mist appears as a gentle fog, enveloping everything, us included, in its damp embrace. The landscape down there is fully veiled, half hidden in light fog.
I look back to see my husband emerging from it, as we cross the first bridge, still densely packed with snow, and begin to climb the opposite hill. It appears we won't eclipse the previous record snowfall set back in the winter of 1970-71. We're short by a mere 18 centimeters. We don't mind, we've had enough snow for one winter.
The creek is in full melt, roiling and muddy, hurrying along its watery path, taking possession of all that the early morning rain, the warming temperatures deposit for its swollen delectation. We can smell spring, it's there on the cusp of being. But we know too how nature capriciously loves to tantalize us.
There will be more days of freezing rain, light snow, and colder temperatures before winter slinks back for good, allowing spring its entrance. This particular clock, though, doesn't turn backward.
Labels: Environment, Perambulations
posted by Pieface @ 4:57 PM
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