Sunday, March 25, 2012
Winter for a day. Or three.
I realized earlier today while en route back from southern Utah that I've never lived in a place where it does not snow in the winter. While the move to Arizona has brought me farther south than I've lived before, it still snows here. Last weekend was a rather strong reminder of that fact.
After enjoying a couple months of dry trails and far-ranging exploring, that world came crashing to a sudden halt when I awoke to a solid foot of heavy snow. So instead of going for a ride, I grabbed a shovel and started digging out. Three hours and roughly 6,000 cubic feet of snow later, the steepest part of the driveway was passable, and my weak little arms were crying for mercy. And then it started snowing some more.
Lucky for me, a friend in the garage was eager to get out and leave some fat tracks in the snow and mud. So we did just that, climbing as high up Spruce Mountain as we could get, enjoying the familiar view covered in an unfamiliar white blanket.
Seven days later, I returned home to find no evidence of that 19 inches of snow. The driveway is clear. The woods out back are dry. The two-track road in is packed hard. But I did catch one glimpse of a rather wide bike tire track preserved in the dried muck, confirming that I did not imagine that three-day return to winter.