rest a while
It's not just for people.
To everything (turn, turn, turn) there is a season (turn, turn, turn),
and a time to every purpose under the heaven.
— Ecclesiastes, Pete Seeger, and the Byrds
It’s 6:17 a.m. and Lucy woke me up to go outside. I thought maybe she had to pee, but she most assuredly walked to her favorite spot in the front yard, where she has the best view to stand sentinel over the block, sat down, and barked. Her whine was so convincing — Papa…Papa…Papa…
It’s cold out. Nine below zero. Yet there is she is, just sitting. One bark every 20-30 seconds, like an auditory lighthouse, a sound beacon, warning all evil that she is on duty.
My garage is not heated, so it’s about 10 degrees, I suppose from heat that bleeds through the kitchen wall. Still, it’s too cold even for blacksmithing. The 1400-degree forge bumps up the temperature, but only within a certain radius, and the anvil is so cold it pulls heat off the steel more rapidly than usual. My tong handles are metal so they’re icy cold, and I don’t work with gloves unless I’m welding. Woodworking is also out of the question.
Three canoes and two kayaks are on their racks over the bike storage area. The canoes sleep in their covers, custom-made, like a second skin that keeps the dust and dirt off in the winter, and UV rays off in the summer. They haven’t moved since November. Bikes are snoozing too. The only thing moving in the garage these days is the snowblower.
The rivers are frozen solid here. Moving water doesn’t usually freeze, but at a certain point the rivers cry uncle when it’s below zero for an extended period of time. There are piles of slush on the ice among the popular ice fishing spots, where augurs demonstrate how thick the ice is. Pretty thick. There are full-size trucks driving around on Lake Winnebago, pulling ice shanties that resemble small cottages.
I like cold-weather paddling, but at some point it doesn’t make sense anymore. Here in Wisconsin, that’s after October and before April. Most of you know I like my winter paddling. But reluctantly, I am done for the season. Too cold, and too solid.
When the kids were young, we would drive everywhere, because plane tickets for four and a rental car were prohibitively expensive. We didn’t know it then, but it was also a blessing. Magically appearing at a destination in a few hours instead of a few days would have been a luxury, but it would have impoverished our family in terms of experiences.
One August trip out west, we took a detour in Wyoming, just because we could. Highway 130 splits off I-80 at Laramie and heads due west toward the mountain hamlet of Centennial. From there it winds up into the Snowy Range of Medicine Bow National Forest.
130 starts off surrounded by grassland, with cattle and a decent number of antelope, but as you approach Centennial, the prairie grasses give way to pines and your ears pop as you climb. Past that, it just becomes more and more spectacular, culminating in Libby Flats, with an observation platform right out of Lord of the Rings.
Libby Flats sits at 10,000 feet, and we felt it when hiking up the many trails that lead to more secluded places. The high point in that part of the Snowies is Medicine Bow Peak, just over 12,000 feet, and the trailheads lead up into the basin below its summit.
Even in August, there was plenty of snow on the north side of the slopes, sometimes a foot or two deep. And, plenty of bare patches warmed by the late Summer sun. The snow was a good consistency to make slushballs for an impromptu slushball fight. That lasted less than a minute. They flew hard and fast and we didn’t want any tears.
If I had snowshoes, I could have walked up toward the summit, but why? It was August. August is for paddling.
Sure, you can blur the seasons as they wax and wane, but I’d rather let some activities lay fallow. Nine below is reading by the fireplace time. Snuggling on the couch with Stephanie time. Lucy laying on my legs time.
I walked past the canoes on the way out the garage door. Let them sleep for now. They’ll wake up soon enough. I’m hoping for a warm early April.
Stay warm, my friends. It will take a lot less effort in six months, and you’ll be sweating in your PFD, wishing it were a little cooler.
Love the observation that letting activities lay fallow isnt giving up but honoring the rhythm. The canoes covered and sleeping feel right when you frame winter rest as necessary for spring readyness. I've tried to push through seasons before and it always ends up feeling forced rather than flowing.