Winter has arrived at the base of Green Mountain – colder than the stare of a jilted lover – but I love it here. The winding road leading to North Grand Lake, although covered with deep snow and difficult to trudge at times, is more than worth the excursion. If I were without a warm home to return to, I would most likely think differently because it wouldn’t be a take-my-time hike but instead a venture in search of shelter and sustenance like the forest creatures have to do on a daily basis. Fortunately, I have the luxury of returning to a modern den with all the latest modcoms, unlike our forefathers before who covered their naked bodies with skins and gathered around an open fire for warmth. And yet, because few of us here in the western world have ever had to endure any real hardships, many complain about their abodes and all the other things they supposedly need to make their lives more comfortable.
During my younger days, I occasionally lived in tack rooms at the racetrack in Vancouver; BC; hardened dirt for floors, which after I swept the dust away, actually had a slight sheen. Like most individuals, I’m not very fond of bugs, spiders and other little crawly insects that bite. However, the first below-zero winter night, the small electric heater turned to its highest notch; when I turned out the light and jumped into my sleeping bag, I suddenly heard small plopping noises. Curious about what was happening throughout the small room, I turned on the light – well holy crap – hundreds of little grey bugs about the size of a very tiny button were dropping through the narrow cracks in the ceiling and landing everywhere! It was like a WWII invasion, except they weren’t wearing parachutes or carrying weapons. Stay warm or leave – that was the question? Warmth being definitely a rare commodity on this particular winter night, I figured the little heat that was in the tack room was enough to share; so I leaped back into bed, pulled my head inside the sleeping bag and went sound to sleep – time enough in the morning to deal with the pesky little critters.
I’ve written romantic poems about winter but in reality, there’s nothing romantic about being cold and hungry. Since I enjoy writing Haiku, perhaps this little poem I’ve just written will be more truthful:
snow gently falling
covering the frozen land
kills with cold silence
Although there are many little cottages tucked into the trees along the edge of the lake; most of the fair-weather owners have fled to warmer climes, only a few hardy ones remain. But I enjoy walking the roadway leading to and from the lake when there are no other tracks except mine and the moose, the deer, the coyote, the rabbit and the squirrel – the bears are hopefully hibernating – because even an old bony guy like me might make a decent snack to a hungry black bear in the middle of winter. I have to admit as I look at the trees heavenly laden with snow and bent over as if in prayer, the truest cathedral a person could worship in would be a natural setting amidst the trees and streams. Our man-made cathedrals gilded with gold and jewels, although beautiful works of art, to me, pale in comparison.
Today’s morning walk, as I retraced my footsteps of yesterday, was as per usual, very refreshing - it’s been awhile since ice has formed on my mustache. Judging by the tracks that sometimes followed my own sunken footsteps, a small band of coyotes visited the deserted cottages overnight. And, once when I stopped walking and stood in the middle of the road, amidst the silence surrounding me, checking out their crisscrossing trails, I heard the mournful howl of a coyote in the distance. Perhaps it was the alpha male because at times I could see where the coyotes had traveled single file along the road and then splitting off.
It’s quite inspiring to casually trudge through the deep snow and realize that wild animals are very near, that some have actually walked in my footsteps and mine in theirs. During autumn, while walking the same roadway, I heard some crashing noises in the woods. It was a deer, a soft-eyed doe. She was bounding and leaping over bushes and fallen trees as if something was after her. She wasn’t very far away but what I found simply amazing is that after she ran by, she ran back again and then came out to where I was standing. I could see her chest heaving as she stood at the edge of the road looking at me. At first I thought she wasn’t aware of me when she was dashing through the forest but when she casually began eating the grass growing along the edge of the road, I knew it wasn’t me she was afraid of and I sometimes wonder if whatever spooked her caused her to run to me for protection – foolish soft-eyed doe – she’s most likely wound up on someone’s dinner plate.
Yes, I love it here. My home in Fosterville, NB (Canada) may not be an intricately adorned mansion or palace but I can afford it, and that’s important. But, perhaps even more importantly, I am bonding with our somewhat wilderness surroundings.
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