The Sound of Snow

Fresh fallen snow, a bright day, a handsome man, a brand new pair of  skis, and a camera--everything I thought I needed for my first attempt at cross skiing.   If it had been a movie I would have thought that the snow that was still lightly falling was fake.  The flakes were the perfect size, not so small that it just looks like haze from a distance, not so big that they grabbed all of your attention away from the rest of the scene.  The mechanics of skiing weren't as difficult as I thought they might be but it was probably good that I'm recovering from a knee injury.  The imposed limitation likely kept me much more careful than I'm normally inclined to be.  My companion was creating the trail ahead of me so I could follow in his tracks, my only job was to stay in the grooves.  

There were many sights along the way and they were worthy of stopping to appreciate as well as photograph, but it was the sounds that were the overwhelming mood-creator of the day.  So quiet, as we are fortunate to be "in the boonies." No traffic or people to run into.  The skis gliding across the snow, and the poles crunching in and out of the crusty under-layer from a previous ice storm.  I knew right then, that was what I'd want to write about today.  The few times that I really felt like I was getting in that zone where you aren't thinking but doing, and the rhythmic sound of the skis and poles.  Occasionally the wind chimes would bring me back like a hypnotist giving the return signal.  Instead of my camera today I wish that I had a recorder to capture the sounds that I'm inadequately describing in words.  

My son asked me the other day if I had to be deaf or blind what would I chose.  It was an easy answer at the time--I can't imagine not seeing my loved ones or the colors in the sky.  But today I was reminded of the other senses that make our lives more beautiful as well.