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Show jj byNanChalat Spring fever in January Now that the cold, short, stormy days of December are behind us we can heave a sigh of relief. We survived! From now on it is all uphill. We have braved the worst blizzards on the mountain, driven over the blackest ice and shoveled enough snow to build a hundred igloos. We're ready for bluebird skies and snow tans. After fighting the elements every day for more than a month, I began to wonder, as I do every winter, why we bother to live in such a cold climate. Imagine those lazy days of summer all year round, I thought while scraping the ice off my windshield. Imagine wearing nothing more than a T-shirt and sandals, I muttered through the down chinstrap of my hood and two wraps of a wool scarf. But sometime between Dec. 31 and Jan. 1 1 changed my tune. Saturday afternoon the storm clouds which had hung over the valley for weeks began to break apart. The sun which had been evident only as a dim grey glow for far too long finally burst through the cracks in the cloud cover. It was almost blinding and instantly warming. I was converted right then and there. I fall for it every January. My resolve to move to a warm tropical paradise dissolves into a sort of madness which resembles spring fever, except that it is only January. That grim feeling that winter is to be endured, not enjoyed, begins to melt away in the longer hours of daylight and suddenly there I am having a good time despite myself. On New Year's Eve the night sky cleared and filled with stars. The distant sound of a toot on a paper horn echoed across the hollow and the first day of 1984 dawned clear and warm. Instead of looking back at last summer I started looking forward to skiing through sunlit aspen groves in February and March. These bluebird days and their effect on one's psyche are hard to explain to those who haven't felt it, but it is a lot like spring fever. Though there are months of winter, and numerous storms ahead there is the sense of having passed into a gentler season. The sun comes up earlier every morning and makes the pine trees along the ridge steam. The steam rises and turns into rose-colored clouds and a thick fog rolls in over Crooked Creek. The horses move away from the shadow of the barn and face the sun with their frost coated whiskers. The snow on the barn's tin roof creaks and slides down into the corral. It is safe to venture out to the woodpile without a parka. Here and there a magpie perches on a horse's rump to warm his toes and in the distance the ridgeline along the Wasatch range reflects the early morning light. On mornings like these I can feel myself signing another year's lease in the mountains. |