The snow has covered the whole forest, the limbs look like they've been dipped in white cake frosting and coconut flakes. Feet tramp over squeaky powder, still not enough to warrant snowshoes. Into the woods, on up the hill into the broad valley of Lower Russian Lake. I biked up here in June with Dave and Claire at 5:00 in the morning to make the Red Salmon opener. Biked back down a few hours later with a garbage bag full of fish strapped on my back. No fish today, no fishermen, just me walking into a dying sun with a couple of dogs. No bike gliding me over the trail, two feet steadily moving forward to keep the body core warm on this single-digit day.
We climb gradually higher, not an LV Ray experience in store for us, but a faded daylight, the best time to be out hiking, is. Soon we are out of the thin cloud cover and see just how little there was above us. Wouldn't have known that if we'd stayed in the car. We get to an old prescribed burn and get our first look of the valley completely open. The sun is blaring behind a veil of clouds. The dead sticks and trees in front of me frosted still, serving as front row seat, puppets at attention, to this early winter light show.
The trail leads up and around the lake, offering views up and down the opposite range. The trail of clouds we've walked through has a partner on the other side, though not as prominent, skirting the hills and fading off into nothing. Just enough to grab your attention, to help you look through. Much more so than if there would have just been A MOUNTAIN IN THE DIRECT SUNLIGHT. Snow blindness, meet cloud blanket. Become good friends, know when to call on her.
And when we arrive at the cabin I shake my hands earthward 30 to 40 times to get the blood back in 'em. I munch on some almonds, take a leak into the still dropping air, throw on an extra layer and summon the four pawed companions back the way we'd been. Alpenglow is pink and orange against the dark blue night as I squeak back home, a fortunate field mouse in the forest.
