Most of Idaho, where I live, except for the Snake River Plain, is mountainous, and because it is in the north the winters are snowy. There’s no doubt that snow can be a drag. You have to shovel it continuously and dig your way around. It slows everything down and you have to just hunker down and work to stay warm. But that is something I love. Granted, by spring it gets old.
Snowfall in the mountains is beautiful. All the
colors of the world are muted into blacks, whites, and grays with surprising
flashes of color popping through here and there in vivid blue cloud breaks or
bright red rose hips frozen on the bush. The brilliant colors of autumn leaves
have fallen to the ground and begun their moldering descent into brownish
compost to be mercifully covered by a mantle of white. If you’re high in the
mountains that mantle can be twice the depth of your own stature or more. Tall
trees can become white mounds with their evergreen boughs peeking through as
bits of coal.
Snowflakes fall through the air like feathers drifting down at their own pace. They can be big and puffy like cotton or tiny little single flakes that find their way into any crevice, including the gap you didn’t even realize was there at the threshold of your door. If you are inside you can stoke the fire and just watch mother nature put the world to sleep, tucking it in with a big white blanket. If you are outside, the silence the snowfall commands will cause you to also hush yourself to listen to what you can hear of the creek gurgling somewhere beneath all that ice and piling snow. I don’t have a preference as to where I want to be while I watch the snowfall in the mountains, though I always want access to a warm fire at some point. (It’s certainly not yet my desire to be put to sleep by the snow!) I’m content to swish through the icy blanket on a set of skis or to sit at the window with a cup of coffee and just wonder at the beautiful display of snow falling in the mountains.
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