Tag Archives: winter

Field Notes

Posted on by
Reply

Being a record of certain phenomena found in the environs of the Lost Quarter.

The Arch

Warm winter winds blowing and blowing and blowing without end. A real snow eater. You can almost imagine spring was coming with the warm days and the melt, though no one in these parts is fooled. This is but a respite from the cold, which will return soon enough. Worth it, so long as more snow comes with it. 

The wind is like a breath of relief after the cold and darkness of December, when everything seemed to huddle in on itself. The days are getting longer now, the weeks when there seemed to be only five hours of daylight in the past. The wind feels a part of that change, though it isn’t. Just more weather, always a fixation in these parts. 

Further west, closer to the mountains, they have these winds every other week to hear them talk. How can you stand the cold out there, they say, with a smug grin. People here respond with a smugness of their own: these weak westerners who don’t have the strength to manage a proper winter. That is the logic of winter in these dominions. Pride that one can endure such privations (and worse if it comes!) and insistence that others elsewhere face much worse, that really this is all not so bad. And it is true, that such winds only intermittently find their way to the Quarter, while the cold northern ones can always find their way in. There are days when you can drive west and watch the snow in the fields go from glistening in the sun, to sagging, to puddles and bare patches.  

The snow melts into tiny rivers, carving pathways down laneways, turning solid overnight as the temperature drops. The next day repeats itself, except the water flows over yesterday’s ice and adds another layer to it. Soon enough the low spots everywhere are treacherous, as are the places where the snow has been packed down by many footsteps, the warmth transforming it from snow to ice, unbreakably hard. Walking becomes a high-risk activity. You learn to go with the ice, to let yourself slip and glide rather than catching yourself. 

Evenings coming home, you pause to look at the sky. A habit. Always good to see what’s coming. To the west there is a curving line of clouds, dark and ominous. A great wall, beyond which the sky is clear and blue. Above the sky is full of scattered clouds, as dark as the western arch. There is no rain or snow in them, just the promise of warm winds. Colder days are further out on the horizon.  

Miscellanea

Posted on by
Reply

Miscellanea from the Lost Quarter and beyond.

Dress Accordingly

Winter is the most honest of seasons. Intent laid bare to the bone. The universe is unforgiving, this part of it especially. Dress accordingly.  

The people who talk of the magic of a white Christmas, the wonder of snow, do so because it is infrequent where they are from. A rare occurrence whose arrival does seem portentous. And like any spell, it will pass and the world will be set to rights. Here we know better. Here we know the winter is a conqueror and we its subjects, that the wind has a bite to draw blood. 

Which is not to say there is not beauty to be found, but it is a forbidding kind. There is a silence that comes with snow, especially as it is falling, a hush settling upon the world. Everything distant and still. The way ahead is unbroken, no footprints to guide us. We can look back and watch our footsteps slowly vanish. 

That is the truth of the universe. All our furious, burning effort will come to nothing in the end. All our monuments will be covered over and our words will be forgotten beneath the swirling drifts of time. And we will find ourselves distant and still. 

There is a comfort in that understanding. All that matters is who we are now and what we do together. Come closer. Stay warm. 

Field Notes

Posted on by
Reply

Being a record of certain phenomena found in the environs of the Lost Quarter.

What Moves In the Cold

The coldest of winter days. The sun shining bright with only a few shrivelled clouds in the sky. Even with the sun so vibrant above the cold is obvious. There is a stillness to the air that is visible, as if the world, or this frigid part of it, has stepped out of time for the moment. Nothing stirs. The chickadees and magpies and other birds that do not migrate have vanished. The skies empty, their calls silent. The coyotes and foxes are huddled in their dens. There is only a whisper of a wind, as if it has forgotten its way. Hour by hour, day by day, time does not pass and the cold remains. A picture hanging in a frame. 

The sound is different in the midst of such stillness. When nothing else is moving, the sound of distant footsteps on hard snow is startlingly near. You look for the person but they are somewhere beyond the next hill. There are strange noises in such cold. Some are things you simply never noticed before in amidst the general cacophony of life. The hum of the transformer on the power pole, the occasional rush of a car passing on the highway several kilometres away. Those sounds were always there but now you can actually hear them, loud and present set against the stark quiet. 

But there are other sounds too, inexplicable and unidentifiable, that only exist in this kind of cold. Something between a whistle and groan that comes as the sun sets and only when standing near the house or the garage. At first you think it is the building itself, protesting against the weather, but it sounds too alive for that. Is there some miserable creature huddled against the building for warmth?  

An investigation reveals nothing except the prints of an absent bird hopping about on the snow. There is a feeling like something is there, something watching you. The air briefly stirs, stinging your cheek, and you decide to go in. As your feet crunch under the hard and brittle snow you hear the sound come again. A mournful howl from no animal you have ever heard from before. You quicken up the steps to the door and inside to the warmth.