A Fortuitous Wipeout
I went skiing for the first time yesterday.
Mt. Spokane was beautiful, with softly but swiftly falling snow and snow-laden trees bending over the trails. It was beautiful from the car. Outside, it was what I can only describe as "dang cold."
I had only decided to come on the trip because it was cross-country skiing instead of downhill. I wanted my falls to be short and painless as possible. And I knew I would have very little concentration available for the wider world if I strapped slippery boards to the bottom of my feet. But perhaps if I was on flat ground I would be able to look about me.
The falls were short--and many. During one of the last ones I heard a twittering close by. I stopped trudging and looked up. A flock of brownish chickadees played in the snowy branches. The novice side of me screeched "Mountain Chickadee!" because, of course, I hadn't studied properly before I came. But they were close enough to touch, and I stood staring as the others trudged on to the lodge and lunch.
There were probably twenty of them, and their calls were similar to other chickadees but different enough for even my ears to distinguish. Perseverance at the Sibley later caused my to strike my forehead. Duh, Chestnut-backed Chickadees!
Ravens soared silently over the treetops. I trudged on. Only three more wipeouts to go.
Mt. Spokane was beautiful, with softly but swiftly falling snow and snow-laden trees bending over the trails. It was beautiful from the car. Outside, it was what I can only describe as "dang cold."
I had only decided to come on the trip because it was cross-country skiing instead of downhill. I wanted my falls to be short and painless as possible. And I knew I would have very little concentration available for the wider world if I strapped slippery boards to the bottom of my feet. But perhaps if I was on flat ground I would be able to look about me.
The falls were short--and many. During one of the last ones I heard a twittering close by. I stopped trudging and looked up. A flock of brownish chickadees played in the snowy branches. The novice side of me screeched "Mountain Chickadee!" because, of course, I hadn't studied properly before I came. But they were close enough to touch, and I stood staring as the others trudged on to the lodge and lunch.
There were probably twenty of them, and their calls were similar to other chickadees but different enough for even my ears to distinguish. Perseverance at the Sibley later caused my to strike my forehead. Duh, Chestnut-backed Chickadees!
Ravens soared silently over the treetops. I trudged on. Only three more wipeouts to go.
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