Yesterday’s Walk Through Snow

I’m walking across the field, toward the woods, late in the afternoon. With me is Faulkner, a soccer ball, my voice recorder, but no camera. I want there to be no frame to limit the white beauty of woods in the snow. I want to know the scene as unbroken expanse, each dimension pouring its fullness into each other.

I turn Faulkner loose, and he knows where to go. I walk, kicking the ball in his direction, toward the opening at the edge of trees, snow blasting from my foot and up my pants in the motion. Each expected bounce is muffled as the ball stops in its own oval crater. I love these shoes; Merrell is worth every penny you pay for them.

Into. Ahead of me the ball rolls down the trail. These woods have the freshness of an open-minded discussion, and I’m here to listen. The Sunlight is doing some amazing things on the white branches. The outline of white, up the trunks and out the limbs of the largest trees, is just — clean! A sea of Smilax briar vines, red cedars, wild cherries…they all are catching light and casting shadows in a perfect display of God’s artistry.

Why does snow in the woods make a man feel so warm?

Layerings. I’m listening to a Red-bellied Woodpecker. Its voice is traveling through pine branches covered with snow underneath the blue sky. Behind me is the horn of a very distant train. Grasses bend in support of their icy weight, and sweetgum balls stand out in silhouette against the pale openness above.

I keep expecting Faulkner to jump a rabbit and go chasing it out through the weeds until briars stop him and let the rabbit go free. Now the trail opens into a patch of pine needles and moss. And the sunlight is perfectly balanced against everything that is here. I am watching light, breathing it, pumping it through my arteries, and telling Faulkner things he’s too busy to notice for himself. He is happy and alert, running around in his winter fatness. Simple woods. I can never get too much of this. And twilight approaches.

Several small oak trees here still hold their brown dried leaves, and a Golden-crowned Kinglet matches the temperature with its thin, piercing call, but only giving two notes of its usual three.

Another thing I did not bring with me is binoculars. So, as I call the birds to me, I cannot see, in these shadows, what each of them is, but I do recognize a Song Sparrow. Dozens of others come close, staying just out of signt and are not identifying themselves by voice. Now they fly away as Faulkner follows his nose through the weeds underneath them. There’s the soft chuck of a Hermit Thrush, most likely agitated by the calling that I did. And back toward the spring I hear a Northern Flicker yelping its strident single-syllable creed to all the woods within a quarter mile.

Faulkner walked up to me just now, offering me his head for a scrub of his scalp, enjoying this place and my presence in it with him.

On to the spring, now, where water is flowing through the lightly frozen remainder of day. Faulkner runs his usual patrol across the broken fence and up through trees around the ridge. Today he’s easier to see, with snow as the background instead of brown forest floor. Much snow has melted and the flow of water out of the primary spring groundswell is more vigorous than I am used to seeing. I reach into it with my left forefinger and nudge a gray salamander who moves slowly out of my reach. The water is warm, moreso than I expected. And down here at ground level I notice a soft vapor rising off of the pool that is formed by the flow.

Now back up to the trail, I return to the soccer ball that I have been kicking all along this walk, through snow and leaves. The presence of a Nike soccer ball in these woods seems incongruous, but so it seemed in the place I first found it. That’s a story I still need to tell.

This is enough, and more than I can appreciate: these woods, this way. I am at home in the cold. No wind was here, trying to move the magisterial grandeur of snow where it lies and limbs where they accept space in the sky. I’m glad to be walking here now, and glad that this is enough.

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Published in: on January 22, 2009 at 12:24 am  Comments (5)  

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5 CommentsLeave a comment

  1. And the beauty of it all, is that it is, enough. A perfect moment, spent in the here and the now, and wonderfully described. To turn and reverse a phrase, the right words are worth a thousand pictures.

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    Response from Steve:
    Thanks, Bryan.

    After writing this, I looked at my favorite blogs and saw that you, too, had written about snow. And you, too, talked about enough. I like the common theme as well as the different approaches we both took.

  2. glad you’re back. deb.

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    Response from Steve:
    So am I. Thanks, Deb.

  3. Your walk sounds amazing, peaceful, yet not in the least mundane.
    I’m glad (for your sake) the wind had business elsewhere. 🙂

    I look forward to hearing more about that soccer ball.

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    Response from Steve:
    Hey. It was. And I figured you would notice my wind reference…thought about it actually as I typed it in. I hope to write such that will include the ball discovery, soon.

  4. Hi Steve,
    It was great to meet you in Ocracoke over Christmas. I imagine you had a great bird count on the Island as we did on Portsmouth Island.
    I am back home in Northern Indiana where snow and deep, deep cold define our lives daily. My own bird feeders require constant care even when I come home late at night. I trudge outside in my old boots filling the feeders for birds that I will not even see!
    Lou Ann

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    Response from Steve:
    Good for you for keeping those birds fed, especially when you don’t even get to enjoy them. The Ocracoke Christmas Bird Count was fun to be on, even though there weren’t many species in the section I joined. The social aspects of the “tally rally” were very well done.

    It was so nice to get to meet you and Philip while I was there. I’ve still not blogged about the Ocracoke time, obviously, but it will emerge at some good time. Thank you, again, for your sweet hospitality. Thanks for writing, Lou Ann.

  5. yay. he speaks!

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    Response from Steve:
    Hi, Lore! Yes, negligent I have been of this exchange. It’s nice to be back.


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