April 7. I know the view of the river, the marsh and the forest beyond is remarkable. I could see it a few hours ago. Geese maneuvered through the remnants of last fall’s cattails, and the air was filled with calls from a pair of recently returned ospreys getting reacquainted.
Now, I can’t see more than a few hundred yards. The snow is falling thick and heavy, the last remnant of a winter that won’t let go.
We’ve huddled around a fire, large and hot, fed by the never-ending supply of deadfall from half a dozen winter storms. The snow isn’t piling up, but it’s relentless. This is spring, right?
Snuggled into winter sleeping bags, one last time, we drift off, cozy in our shelters, lulled to sleep by the unique sound of snow on a tent. Pif… Pif… Pif…
Get Out There