Driving in a winter wonder land… or April in the Black Hills

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The roads are wet but not slick. The city recedes behind me. I wind through the hills and turn at the junction that takes me to my cabin on the edge of the prairie.  I listen to NPR and an interview with Annie Lamott, remembering her latest book. I love her writing. Her spare use of words draws you in. She speaks with the same careful precision in a low, eloquent voice. National Public Radio, the bastion of all things to the left of center, broadcasts her thoughtful insights on Lent, on sacrifice, on quieting your spirit to receive, on repentance.  I smile. I love Annie Lamott. Her faith looks different from mine. But she's on national radio honoring Our Lord. 

I head up the last narrow stretch,  the evergreen trees crowding the the road.    I'm forced to slow down.  My vehicle and my heart.  The beauty makes me gasp. 

 The road was cut from the rock, craggy shale rock- all blacks, grays, and brown layers glistening wet. Wet black dirt borders the gray road.  Dark pine trees are heavy with spring snow, snow stark in contrast. The upright branches of the smaller deciduous trees are delicately outlined. Like lace or a perfect arterial system, stark, white, perfect.  The sky is gauze, the light is flat. Impossible to capture with my camera but my eye drinks in the depth, the intricacy, the indescribable beauty of this moment. A glimpse of beauty.  A memory to tuck away, to savor, to slow down for. 

I leave the narrow canyon behind and slide into the open prairie land that forms the edge of the hills. The edge, the change.  The big open sky embraces the land stretched before it. Pale gold  heads of last year's grass the only wisp of color in the fading light, in my world of grays and whites.  Rising above the new fallen snow, the amber flags wave softly, catch the final light of the day. A reminder of life to return, in due time.

I turn and crunch up the gravel mile of Paradise. A flock of turkeys cross in front of me, plumb dark bodies against the snow. At the curve and through the fading light, I see the  sentinels line of log fence poles, waiting for me like friendly soldiers, guards. Someone has turned on a light. 

I am home.