Kedar
I slip into my winter boots, lightly insulated, for the impending walk. The dogs, both of them, groan with excitement at the door. After lacing up, I toss on my backpack filled with eight liters of water as we exit the house. The beaten path is impossibly slick, to attempt it would be nonsense. I parallel the icy chute, choosing my steps with care, looking for any detail of texture which provides traction.
I’ve walked this road for several days now, it is becoming more familiar, but new observations occasionally present themselves. The weather is warming, low hanging gray clouds obscure the mountain peaks and drape down into the gulleys. A subtle rain, perhaps even a mist, materializes from the sky. I don't mind it. Rain is welcome, it is March afterall.
We have not covered much distance when I recognize a peculiar noise, nearly forgotten. The faint burble of a stream draws my attention. The sound, as well as the sight, of moving water excites me. The change of seasons is nearing and winter, as fun as it was, is losing its grip in the Columbia Valley.
My latest birthday marks a punctual day in my memory. Late October presented temperatures that I had experienced a handful of times before. The Kicking Horse river, subdued by the low temperatures, drifted by, carrying small sheets of ice. It was there, watching the ice drift along, that I knew winter would be unlike any other I had endured.
Weathered wood
Now, roughly five months later, water is once again beginning to flow. The magic of spring, the northern hemisphere rejuvenation of life, an awakening from the dark winter days, does not lay ahead. Instead it is happening now.
I walk the road. Envisioning spring brings joy to the dreary, coastal-like day. I strive to walk on the patches of bare road, not because they lack snow, but because it is gravel and soil. Soil. Another forgotten consequence of winter. From my first step on soil, I recognized the difference beneath my foot. A silent step, no squeaky crunch of snow, the fear of slipping gone. I can walk with confidence, perhaps even ignorance, as I know that my next steps will not betray me and send me tumbling, slipping or sliding.
A young Aspen patch taking hold between the conifers and an abandoned field.
