Sunday afternoon walk

 

It’s a quarter to six in the evening. The sun has disappeared behind the hill in the west, but the tip of the highest spruce tree in the bush beside the house is lit up in the richest maroon for a few minutes as if reluctant to release the brilliant light of this day from its embrace.

My cheeks are no longer so red, and the scarf has thawed out by now: it was -19 Celsius when I put on my snowshoes for a Sunday afternoon walk with Leo across the field. We had been able to walk without snowshoes after the big melt in January, the remaining snow cover firmed by the wind, but something happened with last week’s slight snowfall and strong winds so that it is once again difficult to find the right path without sinking in. Even Leo has trouble sometimes, although that doesn’t seem to tire him in the same way it does me. 

We cross the horse pasture without encountering our little herd: they are still on the other side, busy consuming their dinner. Sunlight sparkles on the snow, and since there is no wind it doesn’t feel as cold as I had expected when I checked the temperature at the weather station. 

We stop at the dugout where I discovered the evidence of beaver activity in the fall. What might have happened to them? Are they holed up in their quarters? Can they survive there? They certainly took down quite a lot of young trees to build their lodge(s), and a heap of branches was piled up close by. There is no sign of them now, only tracks of dog and coyotes crisscrossing the snowy surface of the pond. 

I stay for a bit, enjoying the sun on my face, and suddenly notice how quiet it is. Leo has moved on, so I can’t hear the crunch of his steps. The crystalline snow, the sun, the quality of the late afternoon light – all of this suddenly takes me back to Sunday walks with my parents as a little girl in Germany, when even the paved roads between villages were largely empty of cars. More than anything it is the silence that brings on this memory, however – it, too, can tell a story, it seems. I catch myself listening for one particular sound, a sound I could not possibly hear where I am: the humming of overhead telephone wires, which, I was quite sure then, was caused by the conversations people were having.

Leo is on a mission: he has discovered fresh coyote tracks and pursues them, nose to the ground, tail curved up, half way across the field before he loses interest. His paw prints are huge beside the neat imprints of the coyote’s. 

 

Smaller yet the prints of the mouse dragging its tail across the snow

I turn westward towards home. The neat rows of stubble, just poking out of the snow, stretch into the distance. From close up they look like tiny snorkels in the sea of white. Each stubble has its own minute snow drift pointing south. 

 The sun has slipped closer to the horizon, and shadows lengthen. We have gained three hours of daylight since the shortest days, 1 ¾ of them in the afternoon. How good it feels to see the sun inch a bit further north every day!