Winter - Past, Present & Future

Winter - Past, Present & Future

Winter has always had a galvanizing effect upon me - and I have spent this season in many different areas of the world too; the cold season in Maine and New England, often the teeth-rattling variety, really can't compare to the the languid caress of that season in the Deep South ... a world of Spanish moss draped from willow and Southern oaks, of warm humidity from the Gulf/Atlantic Basin waters permeating every nook and corner, every shelf and cranny -- it blankets you and your every breath. Winter in the Midwest has its own unique qualities too; we find ever-so-quickly that a constant companion, wind, finds its way into every scrap of layered protection you wear; I marvel at how Oklahoman winters find their way, like a surgeon's scalpel, past the outer perimeter of your gloves and jacket; leather feels like it can protect you near perfectly ... that is, until the wind starts kicking thirty miles per hour with gusts approaching double nickels. Fingerlets of cold air get past your boot laces, past the zipper on your leather jacket, under the beret you might sport, chilling the crown of your head in moment's time. You are awed by its singular ability to chill with insistent efficiency. Like any other outdoor enthusiast, I had my share of close calls...

The Winter of the past has quite a few stark memories -- none as vivid and clear as the time, when I, a young teenager, awoke one morning early to go hunting for rabbits in Upstate New York. The temperature gauge read one degree below zero and the fresh snow had fallen that night before, casting the region into a contrasting black on white Currier and Ives print in appearance. I gathered my piece and pushed out into the early morning dawn ... and walked down the trail in my backyard to the Batten Kill River, the steam rising from the onyx black waters flowing past where I stood on the river bank. Flipping the canoe over, I loaded a paddle, my shotgun and skimming the canoe atop the shelf ice that formed to five feet outward from shore, I pushed the canoe with the paddle until I was in the river -- and headed downstream. I was traveling to a slough, a backwater formed eons ago that connected to the river with a backwater eddy that was tricky to maneuver; I had done this a million times before during the three other seasons - but never in the drastic cold like this. Paddling in the faint light of dawn, I could see the eddy from a good distance, the whirlpool was actually quite impressive ... and deadly as well. That morning, I had hoped to traverse the slough, its quiet waters kept open year round by a series of small springs that I had located at the very bottom of its decaying leaves and fallen tree trunks criss crossing it's floor. I knew that here, I could glide ever-so-slowly into the backwater nearly in absolute quiet -- and witness a plethora of wildlife up close; mink and muskrat, ducks, deer, raptors of all varieties -- they all needed an open water source in the depths of Winter's sleep.

I never made the slough that morning, for I had misjudged the eddy's force, and in lightning fast succession, I - like a novice tossed from a hammock, found myself upside down in the Kill's freezing cold lair, my breath knocked clear out of me and shock, always a real possibility, on the doorstep, waiting to overcome. Latching onto the boat, I swam toward shore. As luck would provide, I also saw my paddle soon after, for it bumped me from behind, courtesy of the eddy that could easily have claimed my life. Incredibly, the Mossberg I brought along was located as well; for when I emptied the canoe of water and set out for home, my boot felt something solid against it in the darkness and ... in waist-deep water... I plunged in yet again and retrieved it. I needed to get back home - fast. Mind you, I needed to paddle four hundred yards upstream to the river bank of our property. Painfully, I paddled as fast as I could. I had lost my gloves as it was moments before and I could feel my wet, nearly frozen hands being adhered near instantly to the handle of the paddle; due to the numbness, I didn't realize the the dermis of my palms and fingers were being torn each time I switched the paddle to the other side of the gunwale. At last, I made it to shore, deposited the boat onto the snowbank and trekked ... make that trudged up the path to my home. Entering the house, I immediately collapsed on the brick of foyer room - nearly passing out from my ordeal. Winter can be like that - it can deal you a cold, impersonal hand at will, regardless of who you are. It demands respect at all times. Aside from a loss of some skin and plenty of pride, I learned an acute lesson that morning.

Not all outdoor activities were frightening. We told each other the story about the gentleman, totally hooked on ice fishing his first time out, bought all the necessary items....ice auger, tip ups, sled for hauling gear and plenty of tackle for the sport ... and proceeds to ask for directions to a nearby lake. The guy either wasn't listening or the directions were faulty, but lo - behold - there before him stood was the lake and while it was perfectly flat, it was covered in two feet of snow. Enthusiasm now at the boiling point, he set off across the ice and set up his equipment. The auger, a screw-type device that cuts through thick, uniform ice like a breeze, was not working properly. The hapless guy, trying repeatedly to drill downwards, came up empty. Soon, however, he looks up - an employee came across the snow to give him the bad news. The lake was that way over there a piece, not h-e-r-e. The fisherman then asked what was this place he was trying to auger into?

" This is the municipal airport runway ", came the reply.

The Winter of the present is far different; the days of my childhood long since past, I do not have the time to pursue the kinds of things I did in years past; all the rabbits of the region where I live now are perfectly safe - but fishing is still very much on the mind as of late. One unique thing to occur of recent note was the Ice Storm of 2008; a wild event of liquid death of many trees in the area. To be sitting within an ice storm folding around you is to hear, throughout the duration of the storm, reports like gunfire as branches and entire tree trunks are fractured under the weight of the ice accumulating. New England oftentimes is the recipient of severe cold weather patterns - the classic Nor'easter being a prime example. Ice storms, however, are truly a beautiful event, complete with power black outs, freezing/burst pipes - the whole disaster. As I look out the window, there is catastrophic, crippling damage to the trees all around my home - and plenty of firewood to be had for the year to come. Few things are as comforting as a woodstove throwing off heat aplenty; in fact, there is the old Yankee saying that ' wood warms us three times...when we cut and split it, when we carry into the house and later as it burns as well'. I like that idea. New Englanders are a hearty bunch, ever the people to survive most any kind of calamity, most any kind of ordeal.

The Winter of my future will undoubtedly see me - God willing - living in the breathtaking remoteness of Alaska. My vision is for my home to be overlooking the Sea of Alaska, from the heights above, with streams nearby filled with returning salmon and the year round finned residents called grayling. I look forward to seeing grizzlies, elk, wolves, eagles and an entire host of beautiful wildlife against the backdrop of Denali perhaps - or any other mountain range that captures the eye ... and soul.

To me, the season of Winter is what we make of it; it can be the near silent push of cross country skis through the fresh 'pow' of recent snowfall. It can be the smell of woodsmoke wafting through trees that arrives upon our noses that are chilled by the cold skies above, bearing auroras no less. It can be the inner sweetness of freshly made marzipan or the intense sweet of syrup poured into the snowbank; as the maple concoction freezes, it takes on new properties of texture - and delights the taste buds nevertheless.

Winter for me is a sort of fasting for our eyes and mind; but not for our soul. Its riches demand we respect it for what it is; when we do so, we are rewarded in the most surprising ways. To live within Winter's reaches is to feel much more alive than ever possible before. It is a gift like none other ...