Lost in the Woods

I am watching the snow rise like steam off the pond. This is a day of wind gusts nearing fifty miles an hour, and the effect is to make the pond seem like a cauldron covered in frothy, white foam that flares off the surface. 

It has been cold since the start of the New Year. Whither went the January thaw? I distinctly remember two mud seasons before we got to the real one last year, and while mud season is a scourge, a periodic thaw corrects for accumulations of snow on the roof and stubborn ice on the footpaths. We have both things, which means our footpaths are well-sanded, as are the rugs in the cabin. Hopefully, the snow on the roof is blowing off in some quantity while the wind howls.

The end of February is when we start anticipating spring, thinking about ordering seeds for the vegetable gardens, yearning for forty-degree days to get into the shed to see what sort of winter the mice have been having. We are barely at the melting point.

Not that I am altogether complaining. I like these arctic scenes. I am drawn to the harsh demand winter makes on us to stay warm, or else. Summer here makes no such demand. It offers the choice to stay warm or simply get comfortable, with a dip in the pond or beside a fan. It is easier to get along with, which is why we like it. It incubates new life. Winter’s offerings are starker. And on some level, it must be why we live here, in winter at least: for the chance to feel more alive.

For example, there is the possibility of getting lost in the woods with a dog for a couple of hours, in freezing temperatures, trudging through twelve inches of snow after diverting recklessly onto a new path without snow shoes. I did this last week. Somewhere along the way, you wonder how much daylight remains. How much available signal and battery is on the mobile device? Being confused about where you are is no fun, even in places that qualify as the local neighborhood. Winter will make it more interesting.

In my case, last week was the result of a short stretch of bad decision-making. I was not truly lost; I had passed familiar landmarks half an hour before. As usual, however, I stubbornly refused to backtrack, even as the time closed in on when I was expected back in Dublin to collect my son-in-law from the Dublin School Nordic Center. I slogged forward, hopeful the end was around the next bend in the woods, which is probably what they tell you not to hope for.

Tired and wet, if I called my wife without knowing where I was, or where I would arrive, it might create a panic and expend valuable battery life. I opted for ignorant bliss. I texted my son-in-law instead to say I would be late, underestimating by nearly an hour, pinning him down in anticipation. And he was the one freezing, not me. When I finally emerged on a road—not where I thought I would be, but knowing where I was—I called for rescue, sending it to Dublin while Huckleberry and I kept hiking (in all, close to six miles). 

When the truck arrived, son-in-law occupying the passenger seat, we climbed into the bed for the trip back to the car at the trailhead, by now, not far away. So that was something. I had not ridden in the back of a truck for a while (fifty years?). It was a first for Huck. For him, a very alive moment!

The son-in-law was generous in response later at home, warming by the wood stove, drinking bourbon. They live where it mostly rains and rarely snows. 

“You promised a winter weekend experience,” he said. “You delivered.”

Published in The Monadnock Ledger-Transcript