A Ghost in the Snow

Hiking at Malabar Farm on the first day of winter yesterday, the obvious metaphor struck me — venturing beyond middle age. (Unless I live to be 120, in which case I’ll have to rethink all of this.)

Experiencing the year’s first real snowfall, the woods in the distance blurred through a veil of snowflakes, the abrupt sound of crunching ice underfoot.

Stark and sluggish, yet somehow comforting. 

A few fleeting thoughts on my first summers here in Mohican Country 30 years ago — drifting downstream, laid back on my canoe, long hair dangling in the water, sun on my face and bare chest, the laughter of my friends echoing through the valley.

Many of them have died, in one way or another. The Oz they knew died along with them.

The man behind the curtain survived.