Two weeks ago, close to two feet of snow fell upon our Sahel. Almost a week back, we got about eight inches of fresh powder. That next day, I snowshoed down-valley to the library, along the narrow-gage railroad tracks, the countenance of the snow reminded me a bit our trek up Second Creek, almost two months before. When I walked into the library, my snowshoes strapped to my pack in the manner of the wings of some cybernetic dragonfly, the librarian looked up at me, shook her head with stifled chuckle, and handed me the next season of Northern Exposure before sending me on my way. It was fantastic.
It's hard to imagine that now. There are some tall drifts in remaining in the shady spots, but the warmth of the last few days has made those previous storms a memory with the boon of an improved snowpack-ninety-four percent of average, muthafuckas. The river-rafters may have a season yet, and, perhaps we won't have a fire-ban come summer.
There's mud, of course. 'Tis the season. Great rivulets of melted snow run across the roadways and carve channels in the thawing earth. The grass has some emerald striping amongst the khaki. Bulbs are popping up along the east side of the house; tulips, blue bells, and daffodils. We started some herbs in seed pots, and look forward to planting down at our community garden plot, though that's still a month off.
It's almost a given it'll snow again. Maybe even something that accumulates. Fuck, it's the mountains, it can snow any time of year. That's okay, though, it's spring and it's warm. It won't be long now and I'll be living in shorts and riding my bicycle once more.