Posted by: Dave Neads | December 30, 2011

Misty Caress

So far, this winter has been warm and wet. Maybe it is because of La Nina, the little cold one, holding the continental high at bay, or maybe it is just the normal irregularity in the scheme of things, but no matter why, this winter has been wet, wet, wet.

Yes, we usually get a January thaw or two, a little rain that changes to snow as winter gets on with the business of burying the land with its normal hoary cloak. However, this year the rains have been early and frequent. Several times this December we have had extensive overnight drizzles, freezing rain and outright downpours.

Yesterday was yet another one of those drizzly afternoons, but under my new fitness regimen I walk every day, no exceptions. So about three thirty I put on a heavy coat, a big leather hat, good snow boots and trudged off into the gathering gloom.

As I entered the forest on the ridge behind us, the absolute silence that descended was enthralling. Suspended in the melting snowflake cathedral the branches on the pines were outlined in white, just as a pantomime performer under a white spot has his fingers and hands highlighted in tight white gloves against the monochrome black behind.

This was a two-toned world, black and white, the philosopher’s dream. Large drops of gray white slush were dropping through the trees, silent missiles from the heavens. Into this magic realm I strode, climbing up the ridge to the seat at Satori viewpoint. From here all I could see was the immediate world of black green with white shimmering veins shot through the fabric of space-time.

I felt I was sitting on a ledge jutting from the wall of a great vaulted cave, its silvery gray ceiling several hundred feet above my head, with the far side of the cavern miles distant. Stalactite fingers of mist were falling earthward, melting and fading in a slow, sinuous dance of rain and fog.

There was not a breath of wind, not even a zephyr, just a silent current gently moving across the landscape, caressing the tree tops with the misty butterfly kiss of a post-coital lover on lightly closed eyelashes, ripples of pleasure flowing into eternity.


Responses

  1. “I felt I was sitting on a ledge jutting from the wall of a great vaulted cave” – I really got that.
    Every winter is strange these days. The cattle farmers – at least here in the South Cariboo – are concerned their water holes will be dry because of the lack of precipitation.
    I’ve also been doing more walking – letting the dawg set the pace, so it sometimes includes running.


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