It had to have been one or two in the morning, but I lay wide awake in the tent; alert enough that it felt as if day were about to break.
The night air had dropped to the low 30s and frost covered the rain fly creating little ice crystals that glittered and danced under the full moon.
I lay there, nestled deep within the downy depths of my sleeping bag with only my nose and cheeks exposed to the cool mountain air, and I listened.
Our campsite, sheltered in the midst of stoic Lodgepole pine trees on the banks of a high alpine lake, was high enough up a long, boulder filled, dirt road that traffic noises were obsolete. The night was windless and the air was still and cold, chilly enough that the atmosphere around the tent seemed to be frozen in time.
I listened and I listened. I and realized that for the first time in as long as I could remember, there was nothing outside of my own thoughts and my own slow breaths to listen to.
I was supposed to grab dinner with some old friends tonight.
We’d planned on meeting at Prost at 6:00pm to nosh on German beer and homemade sausages in celebration of making it to the final 30 days of the season.
Though as 6:00pm drew nearer, the idea of leaving the comfort of our warm homes and soft couches began to drift further and further from our minds.
As we contemplated a rain check, I sat on my living room floor with the sliding glass door cracked and watched as the wispy evening clouds chased the sun lower and lower behind the rose colored peaks of Buffalo and Red.
I’ve had a lot of thoughts mulling about my brain the last several weeks. So many thoughts that I can’t always make sense of what I am thinking. I am oddly emotional, a bit overwhelmed, and frankly, bone tired; though at the very same moment I am excited for everything to come and thankful for a winter season that has been deeply highlighted by love, laughter, and friends who have become family.
As the sun sank deeper and deeper, turning the sky into a mosaic of colors, my thoughts finally quieted and I just watched. Watched and relaxed, embracing the silence in my overactive brain. I laid my head back against the couch and confirmed our rain check with one simple word.
With the final decision of “tomorrow” having been made, we three settled deeper into our cozy woolens, some with a glass of wine, others with a steaming mug of tea, and cheersed each other from the quiet of our respective homes; thankful for our thoughts, for our successes and failures, and for our beautiful little mountain community.
Today we wandered. Just the girls, and Rome. We wandered for hours, trudging through feet of heavy snow; snow that has been falling from lumbering, gray clouds for the last four days. Today though, the sun peeked through the lessening clouds and graced us with its bright, yellow smile. We had to squint, for the sun glittered brightly off the snow and we’d grown accustomed to the bleak light of February clouds and overcast skies.
There wasn’t much to be said, yet every once in a while one of us would comment on the beauty of the white nestled against the brown/black boughs of the Aspens and Firs that litter the woods.
You see, Snow makes itself right at home in the branches and crevices of these stately trees. Snow seeps into the needles and disrupts the patterns on the bark, claiming both as its own.
Snow is curious.
Yes, Snow can be a little invasive, presumptuous, heck perhaps even a little meddlesome. But with all its pushiness, Snow brings a sense of magic into one’s life. It pulls the light from the sky and creates a world of its own, extending an invitation to those dreamy enough to enter. It has the power to silence your universe; offering you a moment of seclusion and separation from the chaos of the world you know.