Getting Out

I'd visualized driving out for a couple of days, so this morning I just did it. I figured the crust on the snow would help slow me, and it did, also the undercarriage dragging. Four-wheel low in first gear. The only slight slippage was when I needed to tap the brakes at the second curve. Got to town, dropped off books at the library and didn't check out any more because I didn't want to carry them back up the hill. Stopped at the pub for a huge open face pork and provolone sandwich and a sample of Russian Cabbage soup, all excellent. Stopped at the museum, to see the new African Art show which is very handsome. Then Kroger for whiskey and tobacco, some vegetables and another package (on sale) of link Chorizo sausage. I'm imagining something on rice. Picked up a wad of mail, including a new chapbook by my favorite Canadian poet, Guy Birchard, which I read through for the first time at the pub. Loaded my pack and parked at the bottom of the hill. So much easier walking back up in the tire tracks. It's still a hardy trek, make no mistake, and I stop several times, but it's lovely, the snow such a pristine napp on the landscape. The contours and old logging roads, sensuous mounds and stumps, everything smoothed out and rounded. It gets to 25 degrees, but the sun is so intense there's dripping everywhere. After the hike in, I was done for the day, took off my boots and shed the outer layer. Made a nice toddy, about four in the afternoon, with cider and a pat of butter. My needs satisfied. I might make a pan of biscuits later, but I'm stuffed from lunch and samples. And I've brought in considered supplies, and I can get to my reading on Sunday. If I split and made another rick of wood inside tomorrow, that would be a good thing. I need to pick some pages to read on Sunday, read them a few times, to check my punctuation. But I don't need to fret, I can do that. We writers are an arrogant bunch, even as we float off on our individual icebergs. We are many and various. I have to go nap.