I drop my son at his dormitory, hurrying him along, knowing I still have another 2 hours of driving to go, a 3.5 mile ski in to the cabin, still the “pulk” sled to assemble and try to remember how to clip to my waist belt, gear to get ready, skiing clothes to put on….
It is 60 and sunny, crocuses popping up at the edges of lawns, not a trace of snow when I leave Schenectady. As I careen up the Northway, the sun falls lower in the sky, the temperature falls, and steadily more snow appears, first just at the base of trees and in shaded gullies, but by the time I’ve reached Warrensburg, the image reverses into its negative—almost everywhere an unbroken carpet of white, the occasional patch of brown grass, forest floor.
As I exit the highway and start to climb into the lower reaches of the Adirondacks, the snow grows steadily deeper, and now there is fresh snow, too, first just a dusting clinging to the pine boughs, then an inch, two, three, four inches coating every branch. I round a bend where I know if it is clear enough I will be able to see off in the distance that first glimpse of the lower high peaks. And on cue the clouds part, and the sun ignites the landscape into brilliance, and there far-off for just a fleeting moment are the white-tipped peaks that take my breath away every time I see them again.
At that moment I feel as if I’ve passed through a magical portal, snapped my fingers and gone from the warmth of early spring backwards into the heart of deep winter. Ever since I was a boy and started hiking them in high school, I’ve been struck by the sudden appearance of the high peaks, how just a few hours of driving could bring me to such a fundamentally different landscape, but in this in-between-season, half winter, half spring, the sensation is even more pronounced, more profound.
Finally I am descending into the hamlet of Long Lake, past the Speed Limit 40 MPH sign. I brake and slow despite my anticipation, knowing the state trooper is likely to be there even in the off season, the snow now not reliable enough for the snowmobilers, the summer people still away, and sure enough there he is in his pullout, sipping a Stewart’s coffee, monitoring my speed.
The ice is gone beneath the bridge, a dark cut of water reaching out to the north where I look hoping for another glimpse of the high peaks, but the clouds have descended. The wind whips the open water into small whitecaps. While I hadn’t thought I’d be able to ski across the lake this late in March, seeing the open water here seals the deal—I’ll be skiing in on the snowmobile trail. A few miles on, at my lake—and as I write that I’m delighted to realize after two and a half summers and three winters there that’s what the lake has become now, simply “my lake,”—there is no open water, just the vast expanse of white, and on the other side the stretch of hills seeming even more now with the simple, still-white contrast of the frozen lake like someone sleeping on their side, the rounded hilltops a head, shoulders, hips, knees….
To be continued.
This is a beautiful description of “two worlds “, both compelling even as they contrast. And yet…There’s no mistaking your deeper attraction to the snowy peaks and the gradually thawing lake, “your “ lake :) Surely you will revel in the delight of spring when it finally arrives, but winter speaks to you on a deeper level, I believe. Your words grow more evocative as the temperature drops and the light darkens.