I write this at 7:30am on Saturday morning. It is currently 8 degrees below zero at Hillhouse, the Mirror is frozen, there are over two feet of snow in the yard, and once again, the white stuff is falling from the frozen gray skies. I have a fire blazing in the wood stove, a cup of Earl Gray (ok, a cup of honey, cream, and hot water) at my elbow, and three dogs at my feet. My list of things I need to do, things I want to do, things I must do, swirls through my head and pulled me from my cozy bed about an hour ago, into the darkness. I flipped on the outdoor spotlights to watch the snow and rested in the still darkness.
It began snowing here on Tuesday, and yesterday morning was much the same as this morning. But just before lunch, the sun broke through in spots, sending mystical beams of sunlight wafting through the gauzy clouds and frozen fog. The skies parted in places just enough to offer glimpses of Glacier National Park.
Looking towards Flattop, Singleshot and Napi Point.
Yellow and Chief.
Brother Dear headed out to get the tractor from Warehouse No. 2. I attempted to put together a maternity cross country skiing outfit (why, in my previous non-pregnant life, did I insist on all my high tech clothing being so form fitting? Honeydew’s Wranglers plus my long johns do not a fabulous subzero workout getup make) and headed up to the cabin to rescue my beloved skis from their summer home in Brother Dear’s vestibule, or as Honeydew mispronounces it every time, “vegetable.”
But even just walking from the Big House to the Cabin froze my face, so I stole one of Brother Dear’s balaclavas while I was there and decided to clean all my stuff out of the Cabin instead. By the time I was done with this task, I was still cold, and the mood to ski did not return. After loading my gear into the pickup, and dropping it at Warehouse No. 2, I took a few more pictures, and then returned to my lists.
Kind of wish I hadn’t done that, now. We’re not supposed to see above zero temperatures until Wednesday afternoon … I’ll be inside, staying warm. Here’s hoping the last remaining bees do, too.
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