It rained like mad Sunday, five inches. I spent the day periodically working little drainage paths around the house, enjoying being out in the weathering, the blessing rains. Then it cooled right off and snowed all day Monday, ten inches at home, ran the blower when it tapered in the late afternoon, then toured to the Lake shore giggling at winter’s sudden arrival.
The snow was kind of crusty but with a little bottom to it to keep you off the reef, enough for a few little sets of turns on the dunes and mansion lawn anyway, and a sunset shore shuffle with just enough snow for striding dynamically across the exposed, distinctly boulder strewn lake bottom, feeling what I aspire to while speed walking across the boulder tops in the off season.
Skiing is like an archetypal ideal of motion across a surface, it is an exercise in physics, the holy math dance of the cosmos, a propagating wave form, that swinging kick and glide diagonal stride.
Up at dawn today fully stoked, I was figuring on going up high, south of the Lake. Still no sign of a plow on our street, but made it out of the neighborhood on the one set of ruts in front of me. Waved and grinned at the Park forester walking to work.
Flashing past on the deserted highway, I replayed the image in my mind of the sign there, which I think said ‘highway closed at emerald bay”. Wait, what? In puzzled denial I continued on, to go see. The gate at the bay was open so I drove through, vaguely noting the snow crumbs still on the fogline. At the creek the plowed swath narrowed to one lane, and then none.
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