The Blasts of Winter

The wind has been truly brutal the last few days. In the wake of the latest snow storms, the wind whipped itself into a frenzy and isn't interested in abating. It picks up loose snow wherever it can and flings it in huge arcs over the landscape. It has sifted and re-sifted, packed, then sifted and re-sifted again the snow covering the ravine. Not too much of that new snow has been left on the tree branches, the evergreen needles, but there are stubborn clumps that refuse to be dislodged.

Because the snow has been so massaged, mangled and shifted from place to place, the wind has also been successful in transforming its texture to become hard, yet silky. Button and Riley, wearing their boots, tend to slip forward down the long hills and try to brace themselves against slides, attempting to control their descent. The same thing happens in reverse when we ascend the hills, only now they slip backwards and have to expend twice the energy to propel themselves forward.

The wind howls through the trees, bending their masts back and forth. The trees sway and meet one another, throwing percussive sounds down to the trail level. We come across no other souls out braving the elements throughout the course of this hike, but there is more than ample evidence that others have been out. A thin runnel has been etched into the accumulated snow, running down the middle of the trails.

At times the wind chugging through the trees overhead is so fierce the sound begins to take on the dimensions of a freight train, and its effect is startling. There is the sound too of a loud caw and we look up to see a crow in the near distance, cresting the wind. When we approach that small bridge now well coated with snow and hardly to be seen, Riley still is fearful. He halts before it momentarily, seems to gather up his courage, makes a dash, and reaching the opposite side, reverts to his plodding pace.

Through our protective headgear we pick up a rhythmic sound and look around. There, low on a fir tree, a Pileated woodpecker, clacking its bright red head against the trunk. Its devoted energy is amazingly effective; we can see thick slivers of wood flying about the trunk. There's no let-up in the wind - and it whips across our faces, even when we're dipped down into the ravine valleys - penetrating the trees protecting the trail.

There's a old willow whose massive double trunks are thickly plastered with snow. It stands below, astride one of the creek's many tributaries. The shrieking wind has picked up ambient snow and thrown it against the long ridges of the willow's bark, and there it stays. Our faces are wind-burned, but not frosted. The temperature is a reasonable one, at minus 8 degrees celsius, else the wind would make our presence there truly intolerable.

Gusts of wind continue to throw snow off branches. As we proceed, the wind impels pieces of trees into the air, and small branches green with needles float around us, settle on the snowy ground. And there's another woodpecker, this one smaller, a Hairy, and it too is busy clacking its determined head against the trunk of a tree. Nature's creatures are out, though not in great abundance; a tiny red squirrel zips up the trunk of another tree.

The trees creak and clap their masts together. We watch as the wind hurtles itself against the landscape, see a long patch of snow separate itself from the trunk of another tree and float gently in the air, descending in a dissolute mass like a ghostly apparition.