Oak leaves lay plastered together in faded brown layers, flattened by the first snow that melted not yet two days ago. Though it is one in the afternoon, the fog lays thick half way up the mountains in a stubborn line that effectively blocks the sun, freezing time in perpetual twilight.
The only sound is my feet crunching cold gravel as I trudge up toward Whiskey Creek. No lizards scrabble through the undergrowth, no blue jays scold me. The usual suspects must be seeking comfort elsewhere, either hibernating or preening their feathers in the tops of the ponderosas.
Its not even damp enough for the oak limbs to be dripping water onto the forest floor to accompany my footsteps. So I am exposed as a disturber of the peace on this Sunday afternoon during the anticipatory time between Thanksgiving and Christmas.
I scan the side of the road for I know not what. All I see are acorns that have begun to shrivel. Most of them already separated from their hats. Little bald and bitter nuts, not fit to eat. At least not for such a one as I.
As I travel onward, I begin to regret my ill-conceived decision to escape cabin fever. The fronts of my thighs are beginning to chill, making my legs feel partially inoperative. I start to recall with fondness the so recently abandoned fireplace, adding a cup of hot cocoa to the picture.
My nose begins to drip in sympathy with my benumbed thighs, and turns red. Nothing approaching a charming outdoorsy glow either. More like the aftermath of a ten-day cold of a particularly aggressive nature.
I sigh, sending a desultory cloud of mist puffing into the stillness that surrounds me. I wipe my red beak on the rough sleeve of my coat, adding to its brightness.
If I turn around right now, my discomfort won't be over for the half hour or more that it will take to make it back to the cabin of fever. I try to recall the nuances of the ennui that drove me out of doors in the first place. And as a glimpse of that restless pacing comes back into focus, I keep moving forward.
Tiring of my gloomy reverie, I imagine a more pleasant outcome to this forced march. I conjure up a long dead friend. My palomino gelding, Sandy. . . there he is, waiting for me at the next lane. He's standing alert in his usual attire for Sunday outings. The hand me down, worn out, and most rudimentary of bridles. He always did favor the Zen approach to things.
I walk up and in simple relief, lean on his broad shoulder and reach my arms around his neck, breathing in his horsey aroma. Part hay, part chill fresh air, part oats. He nickers in that comforting way he has and nuzzles my hand hoping for a sugar cube. Alas, I am empty handed.
I have to find a small boulder to stand on so as to reach high enough to jump up on his back. Hes so tall. I'm so short. It was an unchangeable fact we always had to deal with.
He has his thick winter coat of pale gold that instantly comforts my now frozen thighs. His equine warmth seeps into my bones and we head back home.
When we get there, I'll make him a warm mash with oats and molasses, bed him up with fresh straw and we'll share some recollections of mountain adventures from forty years ago.
Funny, everything seems more cheerful when viewed from the back of a solid and trustworthy horse.
Even in one's dreams.
The only sound is my feet crunching cold gravel as I trudge up toward Whiskey Creek. No lizards scrabble through the undergrowth, no blue jays scold me. The usual suspects must be seeking comfort elsewhere, either hibernating or preening their feathers in the tops of the ponderosas.
Its not even damp enough for the oak limbs to be dripping water onto the forest floor to accompany my footsteps. So I am exposed as a disturber of the peace on this Sunday afternoon during the anticipatory time between Thanksgiving and Christmas.
I scan the side of the road for I know not what. All I see are acorns that have begun to shrivel. Most of them already separated from their hats. Little bald and bitter nuts, not fit to eat. At least not for such a one as I.
As I travel onward, I begin to regret my ill-conceived decision to escape cabin fever. The fronts of my thighs are beginning to chill, making my legs feel partially inoperative. I start to recall with fondness the so recently abandoned fireplace, adding a cup of hot cocoa to the picture.
My nose begins to drip in sympathy with my benumbed thighs, and turns red. Nothing approaching a charming outdoorsy glow either. More like the aftermath of a ten-day cold of a particularly aggressive nature.
I sigh, sending a desultory cloud of mist puffing into the stillness that surrounds me. I wipe my red beak on the rough sleeve of my coat, adding to its brightness.
If I turn around right now, my discomfort won't be over for the half hour or more that it will take to make it back to the cabin of fever. I try to recall the nuances of the ennui that drove me out of doors in the first place. And as a glimpse of that restless pacing comes back into focus, I keep moving forward.
Tiring of my gloomy reverie, I imagine a more pleasant outcome to this forced march. I conjure up a long dead friend. My palomino gelding, Sandy. . . there he is, waiting for me at the next lane. He's standing alert in his usual attire for Sunday outings. The hand me down, worn out, and most rudimentary of bridles. He always did favor the Zen approach to things.
I walk up and in simple relief, lean on his broad shoulder and reach my arms around his neck, breathing in his horsey aroma. Part hay, part chill fresh air, part oats. He nickers in that comforting way he has and nuzzles my hand hoping for a sugar cube. Alas, I am empty handed.
I have to find a small boulder to stand on so as to reach high enough to jump up on his back. Hes so tall. I'm so short. It was an unchangeable fact we always had to deal with.
He has his thick winter coat of pale gold that instantly comforts my now frozen thighs. His equine warmth seeps into my bones and we head back home.
When we get there, I'll make him a warm mash with oats and molasses, bed him up with fresh straw and we'll share some recollections of mountain adventures from forty years ago.
Funny, everything seems more cheerful when viewed from the back of a solid and trustworthy horse.
Even in one's dreams.
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