We woke this morning to light snow falling, a thermometer reading of 7 degrees F. (minus 14 C,), and a thirty-mile an hour wind that hammered Chicken Ridge. At this temperature, the snow lacks the weight to resist wind. It just drifts away. The house humans dress in our old dog mushing clothes, stuff Aki into a doggie version of Walls insulated overalls, and head north to the Eagle River. On the road, our cross country skis rattle in their rack in wind that shakes our Subaru like a martini. The little poodle mix whines as she rides like she is in a hurry to herd her people together on the ski trail.
I spot the sun’s ghost, a yellowish disk softened by blowing snow, high above the river. Once on skis, the stiff wind pushes me over snow now covered with forest debris ripped from trees by last night’s 70 knot winds. That ends as soon as we enter the sheltering forest, which protects us from the worst of the wind. If it were warmer, I would have taken more pictures of the river filled with soft ice pans or clouds of snow not left to settle on the riverine meadow.