All is quiet in Sherpeland as I sit down to write this column. A layer of white still covers the ground, but much of it may disappear this week if the temperature gets into the mid-30’s. I’d hate to see it all disappear. It’s been perfect for snowshoeing lately. The nice thing about snowshoeing is being able to travel through snow-covered fields, brush, and wooded areas that most people don’t venture into during the winter. Without snowshoes it would be very hard to walk through some of the areas. When the recent high winds blew a lot of the snow off the ridges, I think it deposited it in the valleys and low-lying areas. I really had to struggle through some deep snow today. It would have been almost impossible without snowshoes.
I’m always looking for animal tracks and trails and trying to read the stories they tell. You never know what you might find at the end of a trail. One trail ended in an open field. There was no sign that the small rodent had burrowed into the snow or backtracked. There was only the slight disturbance of snow where a hawk or owl had suddenly swept down from the sky and plucked the unsuspecting rodent from the snow. It was the end of the trail for that animal and a welcome meal for a hungry bird. That’s the way of nature–a continual life and death struggle for survival. One must die so the other may live. In winter, those struggles are often recorded in the snow.
As I was working my way through some heavy snowdrifts, my mind wandered back to stories told in the snow when I was young. Cars would get stuck in snowdrifts on our road; now know as Sherpe Road. Back then it didn’t have a name and when the folks first bought the farm, we were the only farm with access onto that road. There were no farm buildings beyond our farm, just an abandoned old shed and foundation where a house had once stood before it burned down. They were hidden in a grove of trees and brush. Our house now sits next to those trees. The road was quite secluded and the area near the grove of trees was a favorite parking spot for young people. Perhaps the term “parking” is as alien to many of you younger folks as “party lines” and “outhouses.”
That was back in the “olden days,” long before cell phones and texting, back when people actually talked to each other instead of sending messages, back before bucket seats and seat belts in every car, back when there wasn’t a console with the gear stick, cup holders, and storage unit between you and your passenger, back when a guy could cruise down the highway with his girl cuddled up right next to him. It was much more cozy that way… so I’ve been told. I, of course, would never have let myself be that distracted while driving, but I have it on good authority that people did drive that way. Sometimes it looked like a two-headed driver cruising down the road.
I’m sorry I’m getting off the subject. We were talking about parking. When a couple wanted to talk for a while, they’d find a nice, quiet, secluded spot where they could park, and then engage in some stimulating conversation without being disturbed. Back in those “olden days” Sherpe Road was a great place to park and have those conversations. Which brings me back to remembering how quickly that road could drift shut in the winter whenever there was a strong wind. Several times there was a knock on our door late at night. When the folks opened the door they would find a young man, looking cold, snow-covered, and embarrassed, standing on the porch. He would sheepishly explain that he had become stuck in a drift back where the old house used to be, and wondered if Dad could pull him out.
Dad was not a happy camper whenever we had these unexpected guests, but would always get the tractor and pull them out. I suspect he also gave the young man a good lecture while they were riding on the tractor through the snow. Remember this was before most tractors had a cab for protection from the elements. It was always bitterly cold because of the wind and drifting snow. Not the kind of night you want to leave the warmth of your house and venture outside. He would come back looking like a snowman.
There was always a young girl waiting in the car when Dad and the young man arrived with the tractor. He could tell the car had been sitting there for a while because snow had drifted around it. Another parker learned not to park on Sherpe Road on a windy, snowy night. I wonder if any readers of this column were among those unlucky parkers?
You never know what you’ll find as you snowshoe through the countryside on a beautiful winter day. Sometimes you even find memories of stranded parkers and Dad “rescuing” them.
Tonight my arthritic hips, knee, and old football ankle are all giving me a hard time about snowshoeing today, but the pain is worth the enjoyment I had exploring the snow-covered countryside and finding some memories too.
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