We wait for one more storm. At least. The ground asks us to be patient, to push off that carwash, that stowing of the extra thick layers, and the temptation to act as if this act is over. It’s not, probably.
Our first full season at elevation. Front door blockaded, patched up, and covered over. The side door the main entryway. Cold air through glass and around edges of sections of three-season construction masquerading as four.
Deep snow, wind, and the howl of coyotes on the move. Shifty, looking over a fur-covered shoulder at the humanoid stalking, hoping for a quick meal thanks to a careless pet owner. Head back, cackling at life itself, at existence and the frailty of the modern world. We are all scavengers.
We walk into the wind, from the west, and with purpose. Little to block the path but channels of peaks focusing the beam like the light of a desert racer. Snow squalls kiss the peak tops but offer little to the prairie below. Belts of the sun pierce the gray as the battle of elements plays out.
Creaky, cracky footsteps. Mud mixed with snow. Up over the ankles and into the boot reminding me of childhood and warming fingers over an open fire. Red faces and runny nose. Mom calling with dinner and school tomorrow. My chest tightening with the onset of asthma. But worth it, worth it all, every penny.