far too much writing, far too many photos

When I left the house early Wednesday, backing out of the garage into wee-hour darkness, light snow had just begun falling. It intensified during the drive southeast to Montpelier, lines of it eddying about on the pavement in the car’s headlights. By the time I got to my cosy heated office, the snowfall had shifting from light to moderate, coming down steadily, the local world taking on the look of a place where some serious weather was beginning to happen.

Drove back to the house around midday, traveling just starting to get sloppy. Pulled into the drive as conditions got serious. Stood outside for a while in the middle of it all, everything quiet, the sound of occasional cars passing on the two-lane down below in the valley so hushed and distant that they barely registered.

The snowfall erased all views, wiped out all sense of the world beyond the property lines. No wind, no noise — nothing but swirling, drifting white.

And that describes the rest of the day — heavy snowfall, white-out conditions. The only sign of life visible outdoors: birds making frantic trips to the feeder outside my dining room window (chickadees, goldfinches, purple finches). By evening, the land around the house wore a cloak of white that reached my waist in some spots and my chest in others, the snow cover looking like an ocean, ice crystals glittering when I turned on outside lights to take a gander. Somewhere around 8 p.m., satellite tv and radio vanished, the dishes overwhelmed by rooftop snow. Which meant, after shoveling out the next morning (including shoveling out the mailbox, buried when the town plow went by), dragging extension ladder out of garage, dragging it around house, climbing up and beginning the slow work of shoveling out a path up across roof, dumping as much snow as possible over the edge to add to the frozen white ocean below, freeing up sat. dishes. Which actually — the snow being the light, fluffy variety — was not the heavy lifting it might have been in damper or warmer conditions. The only kinda scary parts: going from ladder to snowy/icy roof, getting back onto ladder.

So. There is a poopload of snow on the ground here, and by poopload I mean more than I would prefer.

Not that the amount of snow should come as a surprise to anyone who’s experienced northern Vermont in late January. I’m just saying.

EspaƱa, te echo de menos

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