In my self-proclaimed role as the Lenore Skenazy of the Midwest, I got my kids bundled up to go play in the blizzard. After a couple of ground rules--yes, you must have a neck gaiter & no, you cannot wear gloves with no wind-resistant material--we headed out running and laughing down the street. No cars are out in these drifts, so yes, we can run in the middle of the street! I had my skis, the kids had the kicksled with dog attached, and I ran ahead so the dog would run and follow me. Over the dike, and down the bike path we went, laughing all the way. I tried to trick the dog into pulling the sled away from them when they weren't paying attention, so they would have to run after it, and they took every opportunity to fall in the snow and roll around like crazy people. We had a blast! I showed them how to check each other for frostbite & when Max got too much snow down his back, I sent them home.
It was really blustery on the bend of the river by the water treatment plant, so I thought I would just ski to the rocks and then turn back, but once I got into the more protected area on the next oxbow, it was just so pleasant and peaceful that I kept going, and going, and going.
What drew me on were the sounds. I could hear the wind gusting above me, and the trees were talking about it, some in a high screechy voice, some in low moans. Several times I heard a sharp cr-ack! Then I would check above to make sure I wasn't standing under a rotting branch--those do blow down in storms like this. Once I heard a deep knock from within a thick, scarred elm. The knots dotting the trunk looked like a face in agony, like a spirit was trying to get out of the tree. Strangely, I heard a kitten meow (though I couldn't find it), and faint murmurings that sounded like a conversation. The whole river corridor was a chorus of strange vocalizations, punctuated by these eerily intimate periods of quiet, when the horizontal snow fell vertically for a few moments. Then I could hear the birds--tiny sparrows nibbling on seeds, woodpeckers busy on the elm trees. I felt enclosed in a safe, special place at those times, and looked around in wonder, barely skiing straight. Enchanted, I skied much farther than I intended, stopping only when I came to the I-94 bridge over the Red River.
Turning back, the enchantment continued--I was amazed by the way the snow had driven itself into the vertical indentations of the bark on the elm trees until the side facing the storm was nearly all white. I was further amazed that I could be out in this weather and feel so warm myself. I'm accustomed to the heat produced by skiing, but this was unusual. I felt like I was enclosed in an electric blanket--that is how toasty I felt. It was deliciously cozy, like being wrapped in a quilt while looking through a window at the snow. But I was out in it. I stopped and bent down to stretch--snow that had blown against my legs had started to melt from the heat of my body, forming ice, snow had then collected against the bumps of ice--I was beginning to look like those elm trees.
Do the trees feel as toasty inside as I do? Many of the trees are riddled with small holes. What creatures are nestled in there? Do they feel warm? Or has their blood turned nearly to ice with the aid of some antifreeze-like chemicals? I paused and just let myself feel completely in and of the moment, like any other tree or plant or animal in this protected river corridor in the middle of a midwestern blizzard.
Cold gently tapped me, so I continued on. After nearly two hours, I was nearly back home, and as I rounded the last curve, I emerged from the protection of the trees at the same time my direction of travel became straight into the wind, and I bent my head as that wind drove particles of snow into my face, stinging me like hundreds of tiny needles, Mother Nature reminding me that she is not always as benevolent as she had shown herself to be earlier.
When I arrived home, I suddenly felt famished and exhausted.
It was really blustery on the bend of the river by the water treatment plant, so I thought I would just ski to the rocks and then turn back, but once I got into the more protected area on the next oxbow, it was just so pleasant and peaceful that I kept going, and going, and going.
What drew me on were the sounds. I could hear the wind gusting above me, and the trees were talking about it, some in a high screechy voice, some in low moans. Several times I heard a sharp cr-ack! Then I would check above to make sure I wasn't standing under a rotting branch--those do blow down in storms like this. Once I heard a deep knock from within a thick, scarred elm. The knots dotting the trunk looked like a face in agony, like a spirit was trying to get out of the tree. Strangely, I heard a kitten meow (though I couldn't find it), and faint murmurings that sounded like a conversation. The whole river corridor was a chorus of strange vocalizations, punctuated by these eerily intimate periods of quiet, when the horizontal snow fell vertically for a few moments. Then I could hear the birds--tiny sparrows nibbling on seeds, woodpeckers busy on the elm trees. I felt enclosed in a safe, special place at those times, and looked around in wonder, barely skiing straight. Enchanted, I skied much farther than I intended, stopping only when I came to the I-94 bridge over the Red River.
Turning back, the enchantment continued--I was amazed by the way the snow had driven itself into the vertical indentations of the bark on the elm trees until the side facing the storm was nearly all white. I was further amazed that I could be out in this weather and feel so warm myself. I'm accustomed to the heat produced by skiing, but this was unusual. I felt like I was enclosed in an electric blanket--that is how toasty I felt. It was deliciously cozy, like being wrapped in a quilt while looking through a window at the snow. But I was out in it. I stopped and bent down to stretch--snow that had blown against my legs had started to melt from the heat of my body, forming ice, snow had then collected against the bumps of ice--I was beginning to look like those elm trees.
Do the trees feel as toasty inside as I do? Many of the trees are riddled with small holes. What creatures are nestled in there? Do they feel warm? Or has their blood turned nearly to ice with the aid of some antifreeze-like chemicals? I paused and just let myself feel completely in and of the moment, like any other tree or plant or animal in this protected river corridor in the middle of a midwestern blizzard.
Cold gently tapped me, so I continued on. After nearly two hours, I was nearly back home, and as I rounded the last curve, I emerged from the protection of the trees at the same time my direction of travel became straight into the wind, and I bent my head as that wind drove particles of snow into my face, stinging me like hundreds of tiny needles, Mother Nature reminding me that she is not always as benevolent as she had shown herself to be earlier.
When I arrived home, I suddenly felt famished and exhausted.
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