A snow day is a gift. Ask
any kid who doesn't have to go to school. There certainly is nothing
that arouses the kid in me like awakening to find the world outside
my window has been transformed into a Christmas card. Here on
the lake, the experience is doubley exhilarating. As quickly as
I can, I dig out my boots, hat and warm gloves, grab my camera
and trek off on a quest to find remnants of the dreams of my childhood.
Growing up in Houston, I missed out on snow days. For less than
an hour I am an explorer of a new world.
Before I choose my path, I
stop to listen to the garden. It is painfully quiet. The birds
are too busy trying to stay warm to sing. The azaleas are sleeping,
all tucked in. The arbor swing sits motionless, outlined with
a thick highlight of white. The Japanese Maple looks like a wire
sculpture.
I strain to hear beyond the
silence. But all sound is muffled today. I move on with anticipation.
I discover the path to the lake is hidden but it doesn't matter
because my feet remember.
I expect to find deer tracks.
We had watched a six-point buck and two does on Christmas morning.
But surprisingly my footprints are the first to break the pristine
surface. Once I have made it to the beach, I know I have to tread
carefully, though. Five inches of snow can easily hide the treacherous
landscape of the slope. Carved up by erosion and the relentless
decline of the lake level, one could easily step into a hole or
crevice. I make a mental note to retrace my footprints back. At
least they are proven steps thus far.
I had planned to go onto
the dock and take a picture from the upper deck. But the ramp
was so steep I had a disturbing image of me sliding down and
off into the chilly water. The vision made me shiver. No. I'm
an explorer today, not a fool. Recalling the adage about descretion
and valor, I decide instead to hike to the edge of the lake.
I pause to look at our neighbor's sail boat. It's in peaceful
repose now like the azaleas. Briefly, I tap into a sweet dream
of summer, balmy breeze pushing at the sheets, full out. Seems
far away today. Far, far away.
When I make it to the water's
edge I am amazed at how the shore line looks with the water
level so low. This span of beach isn't even here when the lake
is at full pool. Will this be the new shoreline? Will Spring
bring the rain we need? Only God knows.
Again I strain to study
the silence. And then I realize, there is no such thing as silence.
Not here in the great outdoors, anyway. You just have to retrain
your civilized ear to tune in the subtle whispers. There is
the sound of wind in the tops of the old pines across the lake.
There is a tinkling from someone's wind chime. There is water
lapping at the sides of the docks. Cold, cold water sounds.
When finally I am ready
to head back I find I've stepped into a sudden blizzard. A mini
blizzard. I can't tell if it is coming from the sky or just
the trees shaking themselves. Maybe both. In a matter of seconds
I am coated like the landscape and my camera is wet. I catch
myself smiling. I wonder if I made a snow angel, would I be
able to get up. Probably not easily, anyway, is my conclusion.
I press onward.
Down the path, I notice
a pair of old logs. They look so cold. Staring at them makes
me suddenly grateful for the pot of chili simmering on the stove
and the promise of a steaming cup of coffee waiting for me.
The explorer sets her compass
for the warmth of home.
