Above Van Tassel Lake on the thread like trail to the summit, fir trees line the path, holding snow on every bough, until they sag and slouch under plump white pillows, looking for all the world like a tribe of snow trolls, large and small, squat and tall, wild and waiting.
Winter is quiet. Except when it’s not. January storms can be ferocious, windy, violent, loud. But when those storms pass, when they have dumped their heavy heaps, when they have painted every bush and limb and twig a sparkling white, when they have finished piling deep drifts along the meadow’s edge, when they slink away with a final swirling gust of snow and cold, then the silence of the wood falls deeper.
Above Van Tassel Lake, alone in the silence on that lonely trail, just me and the trolls and the snow, there is peace.
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