Brrr. you may say? Not I, I just gave it a try today and I am glad that I did. I feel like trying to write a word picture, let me see if I can.
With a bit of trepidation I step out into the cool morning air and into the clear winter day. It is a bit cold right here since my house shadows the sun. A little nip of air touches the tips of my ears warning me that it might be cold, regardless I feel desparate for some exercise so I wrap my scarf a little higher and go on. When I reach the sidewalk the warming sun reaches my face and I feel the warmth through my coat. I step a bit timidly on the icy sidewalk and pick up my pace by heading to the road. I muse upon the piles of dirty snow cast upon the sides of the street by snow plows. The dirtyness is evidence of the underlying earth beneath the ice, it bears little resemblance to the lacy, pure white snow that fell not so long ago. I smell the clear scent of dark earth, clear sky and running river. The path to the river has been packed down by many footsteps and is just about as hard as cement. It crunches a bit, like gravel beneath my feet. I pick up my pace again upon the asphault path and feel glad to be out again. The trees are bare, revealing the intricate design of their branches, beautiful. Some of the bushes have cheery clumps of brown seeds, similar in shape and size as the lilacs that will apear in early spring. This reminds me of their scent, intoxicating, powerful. My muscles feel so good, warming up to the steady pace that I keep on the trail. The river sounds different in the winter, somehow it speaks of the mountains and the ice that it has come from, more solumn and quiet. In the spring it has more of an urgent sound, rushing, rushing to the lake. I feel a great awe, looking up to the mountains. Awe that they once stood as the banks to an ancient sea, Lake Boneville. I contemplate the fish and the seaweed that would have swam above my head had I been walking on the bottom of the lake. What would they have looked like? The mountains without the lake show signs of the receeding water, etched forever in stone are the ridges carved out by the waters of the lake. Now the mountains stand clear cut, beautiful against the sky, covered in a shroud of snow. I pass by an ancient tree, in the uppermost branches sit several crows. "Caw, caw, this is my home, this is my home, stay away, stay away." Crows are asture, self satisfied creatures, glad to keep away from the stupid creatures walking down below. Suddenly someone calls out "Good Morning!" across the river. It is a drifter, his camp strewed about him, I call back, "Good Morning!" and he tells me to have a good day. This calls to mind the troubles of the homeless, their reasons, their plight and I wonder and shiver a little to think of that life. I feel a deep sense of gratitude, for the trail, for the sun, for my opportunities. Then I feel I must turn around, for it has been a while since I have walked and I didn't eat very much before I left, my head hurts a bit, the sun blinds my eyes as it is reflected off the glassy snow. I smell again the freshness, I feel the warmth on my face and I am glad that I came. Vowing to come again, I walk back to my home to drink the calming Roobios tea I prepared before I left. It feels good to be alive.