By Maury Z. Levy
There is nobody out here. You can hear the noise of rabbits running and you can smell the silent snow falling, but there is nobody out here.
There is snow in our faces, there are tiny little needles that whip with the wind and stick to our eyebrows and our eyelashes and tingle the powder on our cheeks. And the flakes lie light on our backpacks and stick to the skinny skis that shish along breaking the crust of the day-old snow.
There is a light and airy kind of wet freshness to that snow. It’s not the damp freshness of a spring rain; it’s crisper than that. It’s like liquid crystal. All around us there’s this clean, sharp smell that picks up the pines and the beeches and the grass that’s hiding under the blanket.
And silence. Occasionally, the scrambling sound of the squirrels and rabbits rushing to get out of the way.
We’re the ones who are making the animal noises—out of work and exhilaration and feeling free, with no falling trees to hear us.
Go out on cross-country skis and that’s how you’ll feel. It’s the joy of crossing uncharted country and putting your own imprint on land that’s been made pure again by a fresh snowfall. It’s why explorers violate the wilderness. It’s making a virgin, yours. Read the rest of this entry »