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by Jon Remmerde
It warmed up after the first of the year and softened the snow. Then it dropped to twenty-five below zero and froze a hard crust on three feet of snow on the meadow. In the early morning, Laura and I and our two daughters, Juniper and Amanda, ate breakfast. We finished a few small projects in the house, but the sun rose and lighted up the day brilliantly, and we all kept looking out the window at the sunshine. We'd had clouds and snow storms for days and days, and none of us had been outside much for longer than we wanted to remember.
I went out and looked at the thermometer. "It's up to a toasty ten below and rising," I reported. "Let's put on a bunch of clothes and see if the crust will support us for a walk across the meadow." Everyone discarded all projects immediately, put on warm clothing rapidly, and rushed out of the house into the sunshine.
The hard crust on the snow supported our weight. We walked down and walked across the ice on the river. Even at five below zero, the sunshine warmed us. We left part of our outer clothing hanging in willow bushes by the river and walked across the meadow clear to the edge of the timber. We sat on stumps, soaked in sunshine, rested from our walk, and talked about cabbages and kings, mundane things of the day, and world-moving thoughts. Our desire to keep up the conversation dwindled and then disappeared. For a long time, nobody said anything at all. Then someone moved, stretched, and that movement spread to the rest of us. We stood and gradually manufactured motion back toward home.
Amanda wandered away from the rest of us, seemingly walking aimlessly. After a few minutes, she stopped, turned around to look at the rest of us, and laughed. Laura asked, "What are you doing?"
"Walking with my eyes closed. It's fun. Try it." So we all tried it. The smooth surface of the snow makes walking easy. Ditches are filled with snow. Anything we might trip over is smoothed toward level with snow. On the open meadow, we can walk a long way without bumping into any fences or willows or falling over a river bank.
Far from us, a Raven croaks a harsh-sounding croak as it flies through winter sunshine. That and occasional laughter from any or all of us, occasional short sentences thrown out into the morning, is the sound of the snow-covered meadow. This is a wonderful feeling, this walking without seeing where we are going. We drift away from one another, but we keep fairly close by sound. Our general direction is scattered but still roughly homeward.
When we get close to the river, Juniper says, "We could take turns, one of us walks with eyes closed and another one walks beside and tells where to go."
We do that, and it's fun. We get through the gates of two fences that way. We adults talk our children through the willows, down the river bank, across the river and up the opposite bank.
"Turn left. More. More yet. Straight ahead. You're going to go down the steep bank to the river now. Stop. There's a willow bush in front of you. Turn right. More. That's it. Down the bank. You're on the river, with a steep bank ahead of you. You're going to have to step high to get started up the bank."
When we're across the river and on open ground again, I say, "Let's have a footrace with our eyes closed."
"A footrace?"
"Sure. Three race while one watches and calls out if anyone races into danger. Let's head for that high ground and see where we wind up."
Laura will be the watcher for the first race. We line up, and she says go, and we go. I've never felt anything quite like this before. Full speed ahead. I know I'm lifting my feet much higher than I need to as I run, but it seems to be how I have to do it. I think I'm headed for the high ground. My daughters' laughter drifts away to one side of me. I think they're sticking together by sound, but I let them go and head where I think I should go.
Laura calls to us, one by one, to stop. When she calls me, I stop and wonder what I'm facing. I don't want to open my eyes, but I open them, and I'm amazed that I'm standing on the river bank. For an instant, it's as if I've never before seen anything I see now; the river bank falls sharply away in front of me; ice caps the river; snow has drifted in windy patterns on the ice; leafless willow bushes stand along the river; the broad, snow-covered meadow lies silent across the river; a black raven lands on the brilliant white snow. I turn and look behind me. Apparently, I started for high ground but bore left until I came half a circle back to the river. Juniper faces the river a hundred yards downstream. Amanda has gone closer to straight and faces a fence on higher ground. Everyone laughs. More. More of this, we say. But we're tired, and it's time to go home and get something to eat, and that's what we do, saying that tomorrow, we'll do it again.
But a chinook blows up the valley at daylight. The temperature jumps fifty degrees in fifteen minutes, and the crust on the surface of the snow softens. Walking anywhere on the snow means sinking into it hip deep.
We don't complain about the sudden change in weather. We go out in light clothing and walk down the plowed road in warm sunshine. We look at the beautiful world around us. We wonder aloud how soon the ice on the river will break up. Amanda says, "We should each name a date and write it down, and whoever gets closest gets the honors of the day..We each guess when the river will open up, and Amanda will write our guesses down when we get home.
Far down the road, we turn and start back. We get home in time to see the snow on the barn roof give up its bond with the metal, slip down with a loud rumble, and pile beneath the eaves.
Cold times and warmer times alternate until early spring comes to Whitney Valley. The birds begin to come back. Green grass grows in the warmer seep areas. The valley breaks free of winter in a terrific rush, and I'm glad it does. Spring is beautiful here in the valley and full of adventure, but already I'm planning for next winter, when we'll have a firm crust on the snow.
I know where a person, walking with eyes closed, with a minimum of guidance, can walk up to three miles without obstruction. Then we can open our eyes to one of those rare moments when we don't know where we are, and the world is new again.
About the author:
Jon Remmerde has been writing and publishing essays and poetry about family, homeschooling, wildlife, and the joy of existence for more than 30 years. His website, www.remmerde.com, has samples from his books, which can be ordered online or from any bookstore. Somewhere in an Oregon Valley is about his family’s eight and a half years taking care of a remote cattle ranch in northeastern Oregon. Quiet People in a Noisy World is a collection of 72 essays, 54 of them previously published in newspapers and magazines. Visit his web site: http://www.remmerde.com
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