There are a few reasons I enjoy hiking in the winter. It’s quieter, less people on the trails, and there are no bugs to bother me. But the biggest reason I enjoy hiking in the winter is I get to see views that would normally be obscured by greenery.
For the past three winters, a committee of vultures has been gathering in the trees behind my house. They arrive early each morning, quietly huddling in a grove of pine trees bordering the backyard. They stare out silently, occasionally jostling on the branches, and then leave after about an hour. The cycle repeats again each evening. There are about 30-40 birds in the group, although once they land on the trees, they are barely perceptible. Why they choose to gather in this spot twice a day has been a mystery. They don’t seem to be searching for food or being territorial, but the daily gatherings are a ritual nonetheless.
Thin ice isn’t a problem for the sea; it’s a problem for the blind idiot who steps out on it. The fool who breaks it gets sucked under; the ice, it mends. Jennifer Giesbrecht, The Monster of Elendhaven
The world seemed spellbound in icy purity, its earthly blemishes veiled; it lay fixed in a deathlike, enchanted trance. Thomas Mann, The Magic Mountain
Her albino hair illuminated my dreams, shining brighter than moonlight. Anna Kavan, Ice
Life is only a flicker of melted ice. Dejan Stojanovic, The Sun Watches the Sun
Melancholy were the sounds on a winter’s night. Virginia Woolf, Jacob’s Room
Music brings a warm glow to my vision, thawing mind and muscle from their endless wintering. Haruki Murakami, Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World
She had never known that ice could take on so many shades of blue: sharp lines of indigo like the deepest sea, aquamarine shadows, even the glint of blue-green where the sun struck just so. Malinda Lo, Huntress