Schierly Living

The wind is an important factor to any storm out here. Sitting on this mountain top, surrounded by other ranges that all are pulling on their own? This time, the moisture came from the south, but the winds soon drove through from the north, and it was snowing horizontally and in both directions of vertical for a while. The sun returned by late in the day, but the new drifts were deep.

There is a winter storm warning for this afternoon, lasting for up to two days. Recently, we have had to multiply the snow estimates by a factor of three to five, and this one calls for 8 inches (and we’ll get drifting), so it could be one that buries the place for a spell. We are down to bare ground in spots, with four to five foot drifts still, so it is enigmatic to move about. (I spent a half hour digging out a machine on my last adventure.) The mountain that contains the Spangle road is buried and gets continual drifts, yet the dome behind it is blown clear and is a normal grassy field. Temperatures can rise into the thirties, yet the snow won’t bond. It acts more like bits of plastic than frozen water. This is a place unto itself. I do not intend to leave for it pleases me greatly to be here.

Much to do before the storm. Stack as much wood as possible by the stove. Cover the exterior piles with sheeting. Know where the shovels are. Gas up the snow blower. Rummage through the deep freeze for something interesting. Ensure the pilot lights are lit in the gas heaters. Get excited for fresh, clean, coatings of snow. The snow forces isolation, so plan to go…. nowhere. There are many books to read, and much time for reflection.

I have always heard that, once one reaches a given age, one begins to reflect on the shifts and changes in culture of those behind them. They begin to ponder the generation they raised, now the generation of growth and change, themselves having shifted into elder status (in the eyes of progress). I am unsure if what my parents and grandparents felt was similar to what I now see and feel, but living out here, in this lovely park, mostly sans humans, nearly entirely devoid of vehicles, artificial noise, electronics, artificial lighting, or machinery? My timing to land here was impeccable.

I don’t have to wear a mask normally, inside, or out, nor on any of my park-wide adventures. I don’t have to stare at my phone to see if anyone has offered me a small dopamine boost. I don’t have to focus on, or be troubled that (whether you like or despise the man), the ruler of the free world being actively banned from modern communication platforms. I don’t have to listen to words being bantered about such as mandatory, insurrection, impeachment, stimulus, debt forgiveness, rioting, and there is no need to query for pronouns. I can, and choose on an ever growing basis, to disconnect from this… whatever it is… we have created for ourselves. What the average person seems to endure all day, every day? It is not for me. It is unsettling to my very core. There is genuine empathy in such plight.

I don’t have to commute. I don’t have to engage. I don’t have to click or tap a screen for a fix. I don’t have to listen to any side, or the anger, the vehemence, or the frustration of my peers who are struggling against a level of oppression that, ‘in my day’ was not only unheard of, but until now, unimagined.

Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, Vonnegut’s Harrison Bergeron, Orwell’s 1984, Clarke’s Songs of a Distant Earth, hell, the roots of Asimov’s Foundation Series, and there you have it. Some of our best and brightest of the last century. None of whom foresaw what “these kids today“ would be up to.

There is a coyote walking the road in front of the house nightly, using the aforementioned packed trail to readily navigate the park. He walks to and fro every night, leaving scat, marking his territory in an area which also happens to be a stretch of road my old and loyal (and male) canine companion has also readily claimed. Much pissing ensues daily, upon our outings; my dog is attempting to reclaim this stretch of road the coyote wandered about and marked the night prior.

The old boy sniffs, tracks, hunts, runs, stops, backtracks, and studies the path his canine ancestor left for him to explore. He loves the daily outings in a new way now, a new challenge, a new exploration, a chance to challenge all who dared cross his urine marked boundaries.

I must admit, the combination of finding a new tea I quite enjoy, mixed with the desire to aid the old boy on his quest to reclaim Schierl Road, I have begun assisting the old fellow, marking a few trees of my own here and there as we walk through these woods.