"ssck, sssssck, ssck..."  My skis scraped across the snow, and I watched my hunchbacked shadow sway to the rhythm of my ski tips.  I took a minute to adjust my backpack, and then continued to tour uphill.  The sun was bright, reflecting off of all the snow-covered surfaces, and I let every drop of radiation wash over me.  How long had it been since I had seen the sun?  I remembered the cold, monochromatic days in Three Hills and sighed happily; Squaw Peak was on my right, the side of the mountain was on my left, and I was surrounded by windy sunshine and people that I enjoyed.

Several hours later, I managed to force my skis the last few scrapes up the mountain and into our campsite.  I ached everywhere, but without hesitation I felt my body pull out my snow shovel.  My feet patterned out the walls of our quinzee onto the snow, and soon my back and arms were aching with the familiar tension of my loaded shovel.  Hours in the office melted off my shoulders as my snow walls grew taller and were framed by the orange flame of sky.  The whisper of my shovel helped me to remember why I love being outside and how it is that I find a particular peace with God on the side of a snowy mountain.  The laughing of Explore students felt like a familiar part of this mountain landscape, and I was keenly aware of every other shovel-ful of snow that I have ever thrown, and the habitual manner in which I did my work.  I remembered the part of me that loves this world.

Now, of course, I do not want to see another Nature Valley bar--and I am definitely not interested in eating another bowl of the "Thunder Chili" that we had for supper last night.  I'm perched on a couch in the Bighorn Lodge, dressed completely in cotten and smelling fresher than I did just a few hours ago.  The quinzee I helped to build was torn down this morning, and by July it will be flowing through the Clark Fork River.  My muscles don't even feel sore any more.  But I have yet another sunset burnt into my memory, and I miss the burn of winter wind on my face.  I am happy to say that the part of me that loves the wilderness has remembered herself.

hello xanga-land.

i think that the last time i blogged was in october. i'm not sure who all reads this anymore, but my mom likes it when i blog, so i'm going to resume that practice.

currently, i'm sitting on our comfortable couch in our warm house, listening to the wind tug at the windchimes out on the porch.  it snowed and drizzled most of the day today, and tomorrow we are expecting an "Alberta clipper" to swoop down and blanket us with frigid-cold air.

i slept in today, and when i woke up the first thing i saw was the familiar pine trees outside my window.  even though they grow bigger every year, i still recognize them every morning that i see them.  sometimes they show up in my dreams when i'm in three hills; i'll be dreaming about something random, and then appears a window out of which these three pine trees stand.  thre comforting sentinels on the endge of our yard.

i took a walk through the woods today with my sister.  my friends who have grown up in the prairie's will never appreciate the embrace of forests or mountains, but it makes me feel sheltered and safe.  the prairie's always sort of feel like one of those eskimo throwing blankets--i stand on the expanse of land and feel nearly certain that invisible arms are going to start shaking the ground beneath my feet and throw me through the air and out to space. ridiculous. the prairie's just give me ridiculous mental images. i wish that i liked them more than i do.

all that to say:  i'm glad to be home.

            I downshifted into third and prayed that I wouldn’t meet one of the huge Chevy trucks that had just barrelled past me.  My little blue Honda and I would probably not fair well in the event of a head-on meeting.  The road was narrow and loose and sideways and steep—feeling more like a mountain-biking path than a road intended for vehicle traffic.  Despite my tight breath and my tingling feet, I had to admit: this was actually pretty fun.

            Eventually, the road widened again; the gravel car-path pirouetting past mountain foothills and cold clear streams.  Occasionally, a huge truck would fly past me and I would be enveloped in a gritty dust cloud, but after the dust cleared the sun would return and with it bring blue skies and golden aspens and deep evergreens.

            Eventually, I found a place to camp.  Some Albertan cowboys told me about it.  John McIntyre and Mark, and John’s huge white dog Odie, sat straight and tall in their saddles and looked down at me in my car and wondered, “What kind of campsite are you looking for?”  Their silver hair caught sunshine and their weathered faces were kind.  “Just someplace quiet, where I can be alone and have peace,” I replied.  As I pulled away from them John called out, “We’ll be out tomorrow to check on you!” 

            The spot they recommended to me was sheltered at the top of a grassy knoll.  I sat on the ground and looked out across a shallow valley; the ground still vaguely smelled of summer, the wind whispered of autumn and in the distance the mountain peaks proclaimed winter’s white approach.  Down below me a stream wound around the foot of my hill. 

            “Just someplace quiet, where I can be alone and have peace,” my words to the cowboys echoed back to me.  When I had left Three Hills early that morning, I felt almost frantic.  Every pore on my skin told me to GO, look for—something. I wasn’t sure if I knew what I had come out here for.  But now, sitting with hot rice and watching the sun blaze out like a huge white-yellow-blue flower, I knew what I had come out here to find. Peace. Solitude. Rest.

            I slept for a long time that night.  In the morning the mountains had traced feathery, paisley frost designs all over my tent.  I walked around through the dull-crunchy ice covered grass until I found a place where the sun could soak through my layers of clothing to warm my skin. I stood there with my eyes closed, and breathed.