“Leaning on my snow shovel in the late afternoon, I look out from the yurt’s platform. Living tucked away in one of the mountains many folds, this high elevation spot is my crow’s nest, and the only place on the property, for grandiose views. It’s enough, I think, One can become blind to enormous scenery, if its too readily available. Today, the peaks of Mt. Abe, and Lincoln Mountain, are dusted with the shimmer of coming nightfall. Another small storm is predicted, and before the snow comes, there’s always a special feeling. Down below, the skiers are just arriving, little specks of color, as their jackets move slowly up the hill. I’m almost done prepping things for them: the fresh flannel sheets, de-iced kindling boxes, dry peat moss for the outhouse, and plenty of firewood inside, ready to go. They’ll be wet, cold and hungry. I’m a little behind schedule. Normally, this would all be done by noon, or a little after. But mid-winter, my inn keeping is more of a dance of temperature, and conditions. They’ll know me by how well I’ve provided them comfort. It’s a raw month out here, reducing some, enlivening others. Yesterday, I was doing what my guests did, today. Out of restless agitation, and frustration, or just wanting to see something startlingly fresh. Penetrating wild regions is less of a sport for me, and more like a return to sanity, done incrementally, as needed. There are no notches on my belt to show for it, just a fuller understanding of where I belong. As the truck warmed, I grabbed my snow shoes, thrown in for free at a yard sale, after I’d bought curtains, antiquated light bulbs, and barn door hardware. Not truly broken, just one piece of plastic snapped, nothing important. A pair of bamboo poles, left in the basement of my old house. One glove, because in my go-bag, there were three right handed and no left. I knew where the plow left a parking spot, at the end of the trail, still a town road, 4th class; a Google maps version of the terrain, pretty securely fastened, in mind. But I hadn’t grasped the 3-D reality, no, not at all. I went sideways round an unoccupied camp, to avoid a hard uphill, and got my first glimpse of a vast depression to the west, where I’d imagined cliffs. This is often more exciting than getting what you thought you’d find. Getting it all wrong. But still having the basic guidance, of an old abandoned road. The surprises kept coming: a full spine of vertebrae in the crotch of a tree, a long since decommissioned forest road gate, an ancient foundation and tree stand, with metal steps grown into the tree. Having forgotten that I had a phone, I reached for it, in case my friend had texted. She had, and I told her to meet me half a mile in. We eventually found each other, as the light was dimming. Her dog found a ball and carried the ball deep into the woods, until we paused to contemplate turning around. We had to call it quits, to be smart. “This kind of wind makes me worried about being crushed by a falling tree,” she said. I loved her honesty. It was an asset in the woods. “Do you think we should turn around?” I said. “Yes” she replied. We’re no different than the cows, coming home. Retracing our footprints, thinking about dinner. She offered me tea, but I declined. I had a meeting to prep for, and guests coming in the morning, and a cat at home, who was wondering where I’d gone.”
