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In early December we had our only heavy snowfall of the winter. There were already four or five inches on the ground when it started, near the middle of a fittingly cloudy day. I happened to be in the woods at the time, which was fortunate, since I had to clear the tent roof at least once every half-hour through the afternoon, just to keep the load from building up. The wind was from the east, as it often is during such storms, and I imagine that in the open fields, with no visible stubble, the conditions must have seemed literally Arctic, with no discernible features on the ground at all, and the visibility less than fifty yards. Where I was camped, the combined effects of a whiteout and the virtual stoppage of traffic on the highway were magical. The woods, normally somber at that season, took on the look of a primeval forest, tranquil and limitless. I could hear nothing but the sweep of the wind and the gentle, ubiquitous rustle of the broad flakes as they fell through the trees and landed audibly on the spotless white ground. I stood for some time with my back to the wind, hood pulled up, and simply watched it snow. I wanted to lie down and read, but I feared falling asleep and literally being smothered—I had no idea how long it would last.
In the tent I kept a VHF radio receiver for continuous weather reports from Environment Canada, 24 hours a day, but I had long since lost all faith in the accuracy of their predictions; I don’t recall even turning it on that day. After a few hours, vowing to stay awake until it stopped snowing, I got undressed and climbed into the sleeping bag to read, periodically slapping the sides of the tent to shake off the accumulation while it was still dry enough to slide down across the nylon fly.
After a strenuous walk through knee-deep powder, I found Boss in his parking lot, shovel in hand, sweat steaming from his tee-shirt in the brilliance of his floodlamps, working harder than I have ever seen him. The storm had dumped about ten inches of snow in less than six hours, and his property had received its share, and because of the space between the house and the garage, perhaps a bit more than its share in his parking lot. His wife’s godson, an aging youth of, shall we say, uncertain promise, worked doggedly beside him, sweating likewise, in the now still air. I felt guilty for tending to my own insignificant needs during his time of troubles, but our agreement was that I would be paid for any work I did, and the job at hand was close to being finished—with unpaid help. I did, however, out of sheer fellow-feeling, and a desire for exercise, lend a hand with the final ton or so.
In the morning there were still clouds, but they were thin, and the eastern sky was bright, with even a touch of warmth in it for my upturned face. Yet when I turned from the light and beheld the trees, my heart was uplifted; the steady wind of the storm had coated the east face of every branch of every tree with a gleaming layer of purest white. If my little forest had been magical the night before, it was enchanted now. I could scarcely believe the effect; I had never before seen anything like it (and never since), and yet for reasons I cannot explain—a sense of sacrilege, perhaps—I felt no desire at all to photograph it. Partly, I think, it was the overwhelming scope of the imagery—every tree had been rendered as a superb study in brown and white; there was simply too much to choose from; it had no singularity. I was surrounded by a rare, simple magnificence, already beginning to disappear, and there was no one with whom I could share it.
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Sometime between eight and nine that night the snow tapered off and the air cleared. Yet the sky was still overcast, and the city lights, reflecting from the newfallen whiteness all around them, shed a brighter than normal glow across the farm country. I got dressed again and crawled out of the tent to survey the damage. My fireplace was nearly invisible, a small lump in a white blanket that seemed to cover the earth. My little bags of garbage, hanging on the clothesline, each had its delicate cap of frosting, like glossy, exotic pastries, cooling in a hotel kitchen. I could see again the glow of lights from the houses, most especially Boss’s, so after kicking away the drifts that had built up around the tent, I zipped up the vestibule and trudged off across the field to pay a visit.|
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