20 July 2019 (lake)

hottest day

a view of the ski mountain

from the lake

January 16: View from the Chairlift

Recently I participated in a team-building exercise in which nine of us had two illustrations each that together made up an eighteen-page sequence. Looking only at our own two pictures and then describing them to the group, we had to lay them face-down on the floor in what we thought was the correct order. The end result was a pictorial narrative that began with a view of Earth from space and ended with the face of a chicken from the cover of a book being read by a kid on a cruise ship (with many other steps in-between). The goal was obviously to develop communication skills as a group, but the fun of it was in the unexpected perspective shift that telescoped (actually, "microscoped" would be more appropriate) from something literally universal down to the most minute detail.

I was reminded of that exercise while riding the chair lift at the Camden Snow Bowl. The view of the snow-covered Camden Hills on the way up Ragged Mountain is spectacular, especially the near view of craggy Bald Mountain. I kept looking over my shoulder, wanting to take it all in. I love living in such a beautiful place. About half-way up, however, I heard a high-pitched noise that I first dismissed as the chairlift pulley running through the tower. But it really sounded like a golden-crowned kinglet. And sure enough, I heard it again as a tiny bird flew into a nearby tree. As it landed below my dangling skis, its crown flared brightly. In that one instant, my attention shifted from the mountains to the tiny head feathers of a bird smaller than a chickadee--each sight breath-taking in its own way.

Mountains surround me,
but the kinglet's bright gold crown
is what draws my eye.

January 19: Ski Tracks

All day it has snowed--constant, slow, heavy flakes drifting ceaselessly down from the dim sky. All day I watched it fall, safe in my office. My only venture outside, once I got to work this morning, was to sweep the snow off my bird feeder and refill it, an act which produced immediate gratification in the form of some chatty titmice stopping by for a snack. Snow piled up on my car. The path to the parking lot softly filled with wet flakes. Meetings were cancelled. The mail was late. The world outside seemed muffled, buried as it was under this heavy white blanket.

When I left work, snow shone in the lights of the parking lot and in my headlights. Falling, falling, falling,  and it's going to keep falling through tomorrow, according to the weather report. Luckily the pile of powder in my driveway was light enough to just plow through with my car. Safely parked, I headed to the front porch for the snow shovel. No footprints were visible on the sidewalk, but two parallel lines ran past the house and down the street. Ski tracks. I could even see faint circles where the skier had planted his or her poles. The thought of someone blithely skiing through the neighborhood as I was working away right up the street somehow lightened my attitude toward the inexorable snow, even as I set to work clearing the driveway yet again. At least someone was able to get out and enjoy this storm, just as I had done yesterday on snowshoes.

Getting the shovel,
I see twin paths in the snow--
someone enjoyed this.