“Where is this snow coming from?” my friend, Laura, asked. “There isn’t a single cloud in the sky!”
A couple of weekends ago Laura invited me for a hike on the Fitzpatrick Mountain trail system. We met at the trail entrance at Smith Rock Chalets in Scotsburn. I’d never explored these trails before. Laura’s dogs, Rosie and Luna, trail-hiking pros that they are, led the way. We opted to leave our snowshoes behind; it turned out there was enough snow on the trails that we could have used them, but an earlier adventurer had broken the path and we managed quite well in boots and hiking shoes.
It was picture-perfect: pristine, sparkling snow on either side of the trail, a pure blue sky, sunshine beaming down on us…and feather-light wisps of white floating onto our heads.
We looked up at the tops of the slender hardwoods lining the trail. A dusting of dry snow glinted on the tips of their upper branches. A bare hint of breeze was knocking it loose, creating a snow-globe effect.
“It’s like magic,” I said. “Fairy dust.”
It really was a magical wonderland — the white specks against the Celtic blue sky, the hoarfrost crystals sparkling atop the ground snow. A dream for the senses. I am a highly visual person drawn to textures and patterns.
One evening this winter as I pulled into my driveway my breath caught in my throat. Moonlight illuminated the yard, revealing a pattern of textured swirls, white on white. The previous day’s sunshine had melted the top layer of snow unevenly, leaving subtle soft mounds and dips which later froze into a thin crust. Fresh snow had then settled into the hollows. The result looked as if someone had draped the yard in white brocade fabric.
The day after the trail hike I sat in a lawn chair in my yard soaking up more sunshine, ignoring a list of indoor chores. You have to make the most of spring-like mid-March days because you know winter is not finished with us yet. The snow in our yard was shrinking and withdrawing into irregularly shaped blotches, but not just any blotches. What caught my attention was the texture. The snow had partially melted into millions of tiny beads stuck together. It looked, I thought, exactly like soapsuds dumped onto the lawn.
It’s now March 22 and our yard is bare except for stubborn patches of white in the shaded corners that cling to winter. The grackles appeared like magic in the treetops yesterday, heralding the new season as they do every year with their raucous squawks. I spotted a couple of robins patrolling the driveway, and I’m hearing reports of crocuses in friends’ flower beds. Spring has arrived in Nova Scotia.
You know that that means: a special weather statement warning of 10-20 cm of snow tomorrow with more to come on the weekend. It’s just as well I haven’t packed the new snowshoes away just yet. I might still have a chance to create some snow patterns of my own.