FEBRUARY 2, 2023 –
The Punxsutawney wonder’s performance today discouraged people who’ve had enough of winter. Understandably, a good share of the country’s citizens are among the disgruntled: we’re in for a “long” winter—specifically, another six weeks of it, which takes us to mid-March. In these parts, however, everyone knows that March is the snowiest month of the year, shadow or no shadow on Groundhog Day. Thus, it can be said with resignation, “Six weeks, schmix weeks.”
Today, Apollo’s chariot rode a little higher, a little longer than it traveled yesterday. If any local ground hog found an opening through three feet of compacted snow above his cozy, subterranean home, he definitely saw his shadow: Helios was out in full force—as polar air and wind. Double whammy: fear of his shadow; fear of the cold. But as I said, “Six weeks, schmix weeks.”
Throughout the morning, I monitored the temperature for improvement from its sunrise opener of 10. Uninspired by Apollo’s courageous exploits, however, Mercury fell behind, dropping to eight by 10. I donned appropriate gear and headed out to face Borealis, as the pines swayed from the force of his icy breath. To avoid direct confrontation, I stayed off the lake, where it’s so cold, not a single skier, snowmobiler or ice-fisherman had ventured forth. Only columns of twirling snow danced with the wind.
For easier passage, I followed deer tracks. In symbiosis with their environment, the forest cows had traveled along our long-established hiking trails. Nevertheless, the slogging required considerable effort and attention to a potentially dangerous condition: a thousand dead, sharp-ended white pine branches that are normally several feet overhead. Even on snow compacted by the deer, I was now almost nine feet tall. After a couple of close encounters with “pine pokers,” I swiftly learned to hunch over like our simian ancestors where I normally walk as a straight-up homo sapiens.
The woods in winter seem to be bound in sleep as deep as the snow. Lower lying landmarks—a stump, a sapling, an old bench—along the path have disappeared; “Gone south for the season,” I joked to myself. Twin birches leaning out from the shore are still wearing ridges of snow—from the latest storm—along their trunks; except . . . winds have blown the excess away. In their present state, the trees are Seussian characters sleeping under skinny blankets.
At one place I stopped to snap a photo. Baring my hand revealed how fast exposed flesh can freeze. After capturing the scene, I returned paw to mitten and made a fist to overcome the stinging cold. While standing in the knee-deep snow, warming my hand, I noticed a few yards ahead, a squirrel skittering from tree to tree by way of intertwined branches. I wondered, how does that critter survive in conditions like these? How does it find a cache of acorns or pine seeds? How does it stay warm?!
As if answering my questions, the wind “spoke” through the trees around me. I listened intently, but it was a language I couldn’t understand at first. But when I summoned the patience to listen, the susurrating pine said ambiguously, “It-is-what-it-is; it-is-what-it-is,” then, with a rise in the wind, “IT-IS-WHAT-IT-IS.” I couldn’t decide if nature was joking or speaking to me in some cryptic voice, which to comprehend, I’d have to forsake modernity and perhaps humanity altogether.
Not happening, I thought—I’m not giving up the internet, my new air fryer or my family and friends. I continued on along the deer trail until, through the snow-blasted trees, I saw the Red Cabin with White Trim . . . or rather now, the White Cabin with Red Trim. I stopped again to take another photo and freeze my hand. The latter was a fair price for the prize of the former.
As I re-entered the cabin and replenished the wood-burning stove, I muttered to myself . . . “Six weeks, schmix weeks.”
(Remember to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.)
© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
