We have a mountain in our valley that, like Cornwall Mountain southwest of Ashcroft, is the weathermark of nature’s every mood.
The mountain northeast of Cache Creek is nameless. Strange, that it has no name. Its perimeters are marked by two valleys and a network of timeworn hills. The mountain rears, layer after layer, for several hundreds of feet. Its topmost layers are thick with jackpine. Its slopes are studded with evergreen. Canyons and gorges cut through the mountain side. And its narrow benches, green in summer, yellow ochre in the Fall, and pocked with ranches, are covered in a blanket of snow in winter.
Snow reached our river valley in December. Inches thick in some spots, like the gnarled branches of wild willows the local call Indian willows, that overhang the Bonaparte. On the wild shrubs along the river, snow was a lace collar, feathery and light as air. Wild birds flitted, nested, and darted above the river continuously throughout the day.
Snow is always the gentlest of mantles at this time of the year. It only hardens into icy sheets later, threatening life and limb. Just before the winter solstice, the sky, snow, mountain and river emerge in one curtain, because snow covers the whole - as a painter’s brush will carry the colour over the whole canvas, unifying forms and textures.
This is an article about snow and the changes it brings to the scenery. Beautifully written!
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