Monday, November 1, 2010



The snow is creeping down the mountains, coating the sidewalks, the roads, the trails, the windshield. The dustings we’ve received already are not enough to cover surfaces completely, but enough to make corners slick, trails crunchy, shoes slip.

Curtis and I went out for another adventure bike ride this weekend and had to reroute our intended course after only ten minutes. The road up to the trails we’d settled on was more icy than expected, and while we were confident we could make it up the hill to the trails, I had concerns about getting back down on icy surfaces. I had visions of cold, painful wipeouts while trying to turn corners.

It wouldn’t be pretty.

The alternate route, while still snowy and occasionally slick, was executed without mishap. We still returned with frozen toes and fingers (even without a fall in an icy creek), but as we put the bikes away we once again wondered if the ride was the last of the year, just as we mused last week.

Our hibernation is imminent at this point.

Many places have beat us to snow fall this season, their streets already covered, their trails being readied for skiers. The meteorologists say we are behind, having a very dry month, but I don’t mind. Even as our pavement reflects a tardy showing for the winter season, the darkness doesn’t lie.

Every day as I listen to the news on the way to work the time of sunrise grows later, with a loss of five minutes each day. In the next month we will lost another two and a half hours.

It’s true; the snow will come, just as the darkness already has.

Now that we are settled in to our new life, I feel that life has become a bit more predictable. We go to work: teaching, coaching, practicing medicine. We make meals on weekends to reheat during the week. We go out when Curtis has a weekend off. We go to church.

My coworkers muse at times about how they wish their lives were more exciting and I must admit I don’t really share their sentiment. I have all the excitement I need at this point in time: the unpredictable shrill of Curtis’s pager in the middle of the night, the endless question of what we will eat for dinner, the questionable conditions of the trails we will traverse on a free weekend.

That is all I need.

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