Rumballs on Snot Crik: A Winter Solstice Odyssey
Rare are those days when the wind wraps around the soul like a wooly blanket and blows open the gates of the vast snow chambers with such magnificence that one is lost in its swirling dance. We were there. Hung someplace between a grand and snowy fantasy and the timlessness of endless white. We Frogs ventured into that zone where up and down, depth and perception are toyed with by a force beyond our control. The deep spaciousness of winter shrouded us in its grip in playful waves. LIke a band of hobbits moving resolutely to the land of Mordor we trekked through white frosted corridors of pine and cedar. Across swamps and over creeks, past buried humps we notioned to be stumps and logs, our breath frosty wisps. Chattering, laughing, some breathing heavier than others, the swish-swish of snow pants and the soft padding clumps of our snowshoes like huge spoons on our feet gliding over vanilla frosting on a winter wonderland cake. Meandering, group consciousness, solidarity and locked mind to mind in zen focus. And there is was; the spot under the pines, near a creek where we would build a fire and warm our bones. And so it was. Yet before I settled in, I felt arise in my heart, the desire to "christen" as one dear sister put it, the creek. I did this by blowing all the accumulated globs of snot, with great gusto, and thereby named it "Snot Crik". The cookies and crackers, wine and whiskey, were produced, and then, the blessed rumballs. And so we stood, whiskey, rumballs and good will toward one another, locked into the cosmic and momentary curvature of the earth as we celebrated the Winter Solstice. Soon, it was time to leave and begin the trek back to earth. Brown dog plunging headlong into drifts, red-haired woman emerging from beneath a picnic table snow cave (mauled by dog!), up and down, around, back, over, transformed by snow, wind and the winding road home. We will not soon forget this odyssey to Snot Crik.