The last few days have reminded me why I like winter. Snow has been in the air, with quick overnight dustings that melt away as the sun takes a peek on this little hill in Bohemia. But last night a real snow came down during the sleeping hours, and I walked out to crunch-step along the sidewalks.
City winters are rarely pretty for very long. About an hour or two after snowfall, all is touched by human smudge spots. When I lived in Chamonix, and then in rural Illinois, both places populated more with trees than people, winter was a presence to enjoy in sight, sound, smell, even touch and taste. I never wanted to be a farmer, but I’ve always liked the film “Jeremia Johnson” — the life of the mountain man, truly living from the land.
I recently finished reading T.C. Boyle’s “Drop City,” about a group of hippie in 1970 who move from southern Cal to the wilds of Alaska. The winter scenes were a masterful canvas for Boyle to give the truth of wild-life dangers: wolves, moose, wolverines, the cold, frozen days with -60F high temps, and six months of darkness.
I think I might like to try that for a year, but with ready access to a bush pilot’s weekly food/wine/DVD rental deliveries. Come on, you can’t expect a 21st-Century modern to so easily shed his conveniences.
