Thursday morning. Clear, forties. Nice day that could almost make one believe that spring is here. I know better. We have more snow ahead...many feet if the experiences of past years are any guide. Still, days of warmth melt the new stuff and, with some luck, the overall depth won't increase; it will gradually shrink until -- wonder of wonders -- bits of bedraggled ground will begin to show.
Today there is no such ground to see. In fact, to look out my window at the sun, trees and blue sky, I am required to look out and up, over the accumulated ten by twenty by thirty foot slab of white stuff that extends from eye level out into the near distance. The slab is the accumulation of what has slid off the roof of my small cabin/writing studio and the snow I clear from the deck of the main cabin and the surrounding walkways. Beyond the slab the average depth on our property is a good five feet, packed and settled. Our dog, Zoe, can porpoise along in it quite nicely for now, chasing after various toys we heave and she retrieves. Later, after a few more days of alternate melting and freezing, she'll gambol freely across it without sinking, flushing the hapless robins who are certain to return within a few weeks.
As for the business of looking out and up, I don't really mind that for now. What I've lost is the view into the valley of Ryan Park. When my parents bought this cabin forty years ago the main part of that valley was empty of houses and roads. It's main features were a picturesque mountain stream, willows along the banks, and an expanse of sage and grasses stretching to the surrounding forests. Deed to the valley was granted to the owner of a lumber company in exchange for his own lands further into the forest. He, in turn, sold the valley to a retired automobile company executive who expected to sell lots and make his millions. Things didn't sell fast or well. Millions were not made. But roads were cleared and lots did sell, and, over time, homes small and large sprung up.
These days Ryan Park has lurched and stumbled into a small community of families, mostly weekenders, who come to snowmobile in winter, ride four-wheelers when the roads aren't buried in snow, and generally take advantage of the various ways to recreate in these mountains. We have a home and property owners association, a volunteer fire department, and an annual fund raiser to support said fire department and raise money to keep our roads more or less repaired. It is a decidedly loose, if not entirely informal, community and I'm mostly okay with the growth that put it here. Mostly.
But I do remember when that valley was empty. Years ago a much younger me would drive on summer nights from homes elsewhere and stop to gape at its splendid emptiness illuminated by a full moon, no sounds but the murmuring stream and rustling of the trees in the light breeze. I'd breathe deeply and wish with all my heart that nothing would change, that the meadow and stream and forest would stay high and lonely and lovely. It was a naive wish. Even then there were other homes, long established, hidden in the forest at the edge of the park. The valley was certainly far from empty. I loved an illusion.
I love its memory still. Today, and for the next few weeks, as long as this snow before me lingers, I can allow myself to recall and even rest in that illusion. I can't see the valley; I can't see the houses. I can see the forest above it and the tip of Medicine Bow Peak atop the Snowy Range, and I can and will pretend that all is as it was.
And watch as the thaw melts the illusion. And carry on with the way things are now.
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