A comfortable rise in temperature coincided
with the full of the moon last Monday night. What could I do
but dress warmly and go out into the night to immerse myself in
it?
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VIKI MATHER |
After days and nights of deep cold, the -7
that came on Monday afternoon and stayed into the evening, was
reason enough to celebrate. I clipped on my skis, and glided
onto the trail.
The skis were perfectly waxed. I could stride
up the hills and glide on the flats, then fly down the slope on
the other side.
After what seemed to be weeks of trudging
along on the -22 cold, coarse, snow, having to push my way down
the hills as well as up, it was heaven to have a free and easy
glide.
The moon, of course, was high above. Stars
stretched across most of the sky. A few wispy clouds seemed to
skim the tops of the trees as they
drifted between me and the moon. They were
brilliantly white against the blackness of the sky, but
gossamer thin.
I could clearly see the face of the man in
the moon right through them. The beginnings of the northern
wind blew the misty clouds rapidly through the night.
Part way up the hill, I paused to catch my
breath, and gaze at the brilliant scene around me. The
mid-winter moon rises higher than any other time of the
year.
With the land covered in white, the trees
carrying white in their branches, and the light of the moon
shining on all, the world was aglow.
I could even see the fresh fox tracks in the
snow as I glided down the next hill. He'd come by sometime in
the evening, his tracks on top of those I
had made early in the afternoon. The hill ran
long and fast. It curved gently through the forest of aspen and
spruce.
Moon shadows danced all around while Cat
Stevens'' song rang in my head.
New fallen snow glistened at my feet. It felt
soft as a new baby's blanket as my skis ran through.
At the fork in the trail, I had to
decide-would I head back home, or take the longer route up the
next hill?
I wasn't ready to go home. I wanted to find a
way to stay. So I took the longer route, of course. Up and up
the next hill, this time through a young maple sugar bush. Then
on the flats again - kick and glide, kick and glide. Even here,
I felt I could fly along forever.
Then alas, came the final hill. More than
half a kilometre long, it made the idea of going home again
something I could bear. Flying, flying, flying on
skis. There's no place I would rather
be.
Viki Mather lives by a lake near Sudbury.
