Up before the dawn and the house is still and cold. My breath clouds the air as I stand before the mirror and by the time the shower is hot, my feet are like ice. I stay in far too long, not wanting to leave the sanctuary, but sooner or later, I have to face the world. I dry myself briskly trying to keep the blood circulating near my skin’s surface, determined to stay warm long enough to pull on my clothes. The only sound I can hear is the gentle song of the wind chimes on the front porch. Dog and dog spring to life, as they always do when I head downstairs to let them out. The air is blue with morning light, while the western sky glows Broncos orange in the distance. The snow squeaks underfoot, while the atmosphere itself appears to crackle. It’s so dry.
Back indoors, stamping the snow off my boots and the coffee’s almost ready. The steam rises and disappears into the kitchen, leaving only the aroma that tells of mornings and early starts. I leave Dear Wife’s by the bed, in her insulated mug so it will be waiting for her when she awakes. With difficulty I locate her forehead among the covers and kissing her goodbye, grab a dog leash, young dog and my coffee before heading out to the car. Older dog watches us forlornly through the glass door, her heart breaking. But she’s been sick and will have to make do with a shorter walk around the neighborhood later in the day.
The car doesn’t want to start, it hates mornings too but reluctantly it turns over and coughs into life. I let the motor run for a few minutes, imagining the life giving oil seeping into all the nooks and crannies allowing it to run smoothly and efficiently, rather like the effect strong coffee has on my body. I leave the radio off, in no mood for inane chatter this morning and instead listen to the symphony of an old car, rattling and groaning along the ice-packed dirt road leading us to the highway. Even the gas pedal creaks with the cold, but the gear box feels uncharacteristically smooth and the worn tires hum as we reach the blacktop.
The fishing pond is frozen solid, barely discernible from the fields around it. The fish lying semi-dormant beneath the ice, safe for a while from the anglers who harass them in the summer, both the humans in their rubber waders and the blue heron who stands sentinel on the jetty. The sign tells us to reduce speed as we approach the school. It’s silent and empty on the weekend, but I slow down anyway. I’ve had too many slides on this corner to take it fast the way I used to. The Christian camp too, is deserted; the playground swings sad and abandoned; a skeleton of the happy park of summer. At the gas station, the forecourt is crowded with cars, trucks and campers as people head into the high country for a day of play in the snow. Down jackets and cammo gear, snowmobiles, gunracks and skis, all rubbing shoulders in the mutual camaraderie of gassing up and hitting the coffee pot.
A quick stop at the drive through for breakfast. Egg and potato burrito with bacon for me, while dog gets a chew treat because Dear Wife isn’t here to remind me that it’s bad for her delicate stomach. Driving one handed I follow the winding road, down and down into the valley, still barely touched by sunlight so the tree branches glisten like jeweled necklaces and the ice on the road alternates between blinding silver and treacherous black. Past the field with the three horses, standing far apart but by some hidden communication, all facing in exactly the same direction, towards the morning sun. Are they enjoying the warmth on their faces, or engaged in some form of pagan worship? I don’t know and they aren’t telling.
I park facing the creek, and pull on my jacket, my gloves, my scarf. Dog is bouncing around the back of the car like a wild thing, making no attempt to suppress her excitement. If I’m not careful she’ll be out of the door and off into the wild so taking the leash, I tie her to the hitch until I’m ready to move. Even so, her boundless energy pulls me along the trail and I slip and slide over the ice, the treads of my boots completely ineffective at halting my progress. Down here the trees are still heavy with snow which deadens almost all sound. Occasionally, the chatter of birdsong will break through the hush but even that is muted, as though the animals are enjoying the tranquility too.
I know the creek is there, I’ve seen it before but today it’s hidden beneath the snow and ice. Once in a while, a window opens and allows a glimpse of the black water forcing its way down the valley, bubbling and gurgling in deep, amplified tones sounding like the inner workings of a whale. On either side the ground slopes steeply up into the wooded hillside, reaching to the National Park and beyond. The tan rocks are framed by the snow like some Bev Doolittle painting and if I look hard enough, perhaps I’ll see the face of a wolf, or two Indians stealing horses, carefully camouflaged in the art work.
In fact, on the trail up ahead, there is a wolf. Or is it a coyote? No, it’s a wolf. Or a wolf-hybrid. A wolf-hybrid, there are no wolves here. It’s wearing a bright red collar. Wolf-hybrid then. But is it friendly? Dog’s ears are up and she’s straining hard, wanting to investigate, to sniff, to play. Ah, but you’re a fully domesticated, spoiled rotten house dog my love, and maybe wolf-hybrid won’t like you for that.
“Get on home!” I call, “Go on, git!”
Wolf-hybrid turns and with repeated curious over the shoulder glances, heads up the hill and into the woods. We continue along the trail and see it no more.
The sun is fully up now, which tells me it’s getting late. I no longer need my gloves and my jacket is unzipped to the waist. Time to head home and indeed, there’s the car up ahead. Hikes in Colorado are never long enough, but breakfast was some time ago and I’m ready for lunch. Home then, to the stove, and the fire and a book for the afternoon.
Every season in Colorado is my favorite, but winter is perhaps my most favorite.
This article appeared in Issue # 120 of Mountain Gazette in January, 2006.
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