Breaking Trail

Took me over an hour to get down to the Jeep and back to the house with my stashed bottle of whiskey. The snow had subsided down to 6 and 8 inches, so I'd didn't have to lift my feet as high. Set in the vehicle, catching my breath and slowing my heart-rate. Going back up was a slog through rotting snow. Supposed to be even warmer tomorrow and I should be able to get to the library and get a few things at the store. A steak and baked potato sounds good. One of the books at the library should be a history of mining. I'm looking forward to it. It's a good workout, walking in and out; and I can look for buds and the first green things, in bare patches on the south-facing slope. Tracks of a monster buck crossing down at the print-shop. The squirrels were in the sumac today, they'd rip off an entire seed-head and eat it like corn on the cob. They were at it for a long time, fun to watch, with their cute little hands. By late afternoon it's just too impossibly messy to be outside, I make a toddy and resume reading about bronze and iron. I feel like I'm in the stone age, most of the time. I got the upper culvert catchment cleaned out, but the driveway sustained some damage, which I can't see yet because of the snow. And there are a lot of frozen leaves still in the grader ditch. The water from the wet weather springs is incredibly cold and delicious. I'm a little sore, from the hike, but it was nice to be outside. The saturated air, the smell of it. I got my feet wet, despite having just re-treated my boots, which leads me to believe they're dying. Work boot purchase is a serious consideration. Winter is nearly over, though, you can tell when you start tracking in mud. It can still be cold, but it won't last. The ice I bring in on my crampons melts away quickly, two weeks ago it was freezing on the floor. More tired than I thought, fell asleep almost immediately after eating, let the fire go out, and slept until dawn. I needed the rest, but I woke with enough soreness to re-enforce the sure knowledge that I am no longer a spring chicken. I end up rereading all of Chichester's Gipsy Moth, then review all of the stores carefully, an index compiled by his wife, who did all of the stowage. He was a vegetarian, but ate fish, and seems to have favored, as I do, sardines on toast. Also of interest were the differences in foodstuffs for the outgoing and homeward legs (Sydney was about half-way, and he refitted there), the learning curve: more potatoes, better eggs, easier quick meals. Whatever particular people I happen to be reading about, I'm always interested in the larder. Mine is pretty well shot, as it should be at this time of year, but I do remember a steak in the freezer and a box of dehydrated scalloped potatoes (Mom convinced me that they were better than nothing). Next time I'm at the pub I want a salad. Supposed to be 55 degrees tomorrow, and I make plans to wash my hair and take a sponge bath, then go to town. Now that they've changed the time, I can stay in town for Happy Hour and still get home before dark.