The Snow Line

A light mist filled the upper valley, dimming the features of the mountain peak, while behind from the sea, the sun advanced up the slopes as it broke through the clouds. The trail had recently cleared of snow, but the remnants of snow had melted here below. But as I climbed higher, the return of frozen land now crept up below my feet.

Soon the snow was deeper in the narrow ravine; each foot step sinking deeper. Only another set of feet had come here before the last snow, and the surface held my weight. Further up, I was sinking now knee deep, hip deep if I wandered too far from the path. But the mist now cleared and the sun now lit the rocky face of the mountain. Once out of the alder and ravine, I stood in the empty corridor of the avalanche chute.

Along the edges or in the hollows the snow was soft and deep. Up the chute the broken remains of avalanche formed a wall. The birthplace of this massive fall was still, yet still the possibility of more snow remained. Outwards, looking to the south were valleys, and the bay where low tide now showed the reefs. Up here the brightness of the sun and cloud shadows mixed. I drank in the view, looking along the white margins below. Then over the lip of the avalanche two dogs came up, moving at a easy pace, effortlessly floating on the surface of the snow. Others were coming to join me here in this silent place. It was easy to get up but the return downwards would be harder as the sun had softened the snow.