On that first snow run, there’s no thinking about the bitter chill. It’s about getting out there, so that you can be a part of it and see firsthand how the entire landscape has changed and truly become that idealized winter wonderland of soft white and fragile, brittle nature still months away from even a hint of its Spring renewal.
I see the lake, frozen over and blanketed with pockets of snow, and just really just want to run across it. I can run across it. It’s frozen solid enough. If I were younger, I wouldn’t even be thinking about it — I’d just be making my way across, with no fear. Instead, I stand there, taking it all in, and go on thinking about those younger days.
Every ledge is the end of the world, maybe. You’ve seen these spots a million times, but on that first snow run, it feels as if you don’t know what’s beyond the drop-off. Everything looks new, and the unknown awaits. You pick up the pace and leap.
There’s no one around. That might be the best part of all. Eerily quiet but for the whispering winds. I come across those tucked away steps on the back-trails and feel as if I am stumbling upon ruins, abandoned and forgotten long ago.
These paths are well worn, by me, and many others. But on that first snow, even in the wide open spaces, not a footstep in site. There is a glowing warmth, an angelic orchestral echo of quiet, to coming upon an open field, especially for that last stretch of the run, knowing that you will be the first to traverse it no matter where your feet land.