First Snow Run
I wake suddenly from a quickly forgotten dream and think, the horses.
I reach for my phone, which shows it’s 4:42 a.m., and open the weather app. It’s not too cold, 21 degrees, but the temps are expected to drop to the high teens during the next couple of hours. The horses will need extra food to warm their bodies through eating and digestion.
I quietly get out of bed so as not to wake Morgan or the dogs, get dressed and get two carrots from the fridge. Then I step outside to feed an early breakfast to “the boys,” our quarter horses Maverick and Cobalt.
The frigid air sharpens my senses like a splash of water to the face. I slip my feet into rubber mucking boots that feel like blocks of ice.
The horses are adapting to the season, as am I. I resist the urge to blanket them, because their coats need to grow and thicken to handle sub-freezing winter temperatures, and blanketing would inhibit their hair growth.
Storm clouds have cleared, revealing a multitude of stars in the absence of light pollution. My flashlight beam makes the fresh snow sparkle.
The distance from our house to the barn is only about 100 meters. I take quick steps that crunch on the snow, slide the heavy wooden barn door sideways and flip on a light switch, which reveals some 15 stacked bales of hay, bins full of grain and chicken feed, and rakes and shovels leaning against the wall. I inhale the familiar strong scent of alfalfa and manure as if it’s the smell of fresh-brewed coffee.
Then I slide open a second big wooden door, which separates the barn breezeway from a paddock, and there they are pacing and nickering in anticipation of being fed—Cobalt, the stockier white one, always angling to be in front, and Maverick, the sleeker black one, taking his place at Cobalt’s side. They greedily munch the carrots I hold out for them, and Cobalt nudges my pockets hoping for more.
Horses, my first love and sport, shaped my growing-up years and now play a major role in my life as an empty-nester. We don’t need horses, and yet, like dogs, they are quasi family members, with the added gift of giving me a second sport and hobby to balance out my running.
I use wire cutters to open a new bale, take wide flakes of hay in my arms and toss them on the ground. While they plunge their heads down to eat, I step between them and stroke their sides, relieved their bodies feel dry and warm enough.
It’s only mid-October, yet snow made its first appearance and wind blew most of the golden leaves off the aspens. Are we ready for the change of season? Yes, we know now what to do.
Morgan shut off the stream flow to the irrigation ditch, and we hired guys with equipment to blow pressurized air to clear the water lines so they won’t freeze and bust. We pounded in 4-foot-high thin orange poles along the driveway boundaries, so we’ll know where to drive when deep powder buries the road. We turned on the heat lamp for the chickens and unscrewed hoses from faucets. We took the truck to the tire shop to put on snow tires, and stacked firewood outside the door. Last night, we opened the flue and built the first fire.
In my closet, I rotated my shorts to a high shelf and unpacked running tights that have been in storage.
I hadn’t planned on running this morning because it’s so cold. But now, with this predawn wakeup, I’m emboldened to go on a sunrise run and to confront the cold just like the horses do.
I pull on lycra tights, a long-sleeve wool top, and a medium-weight parka that works well for running because vents under the arms prevent overheating. In the entranceway closet, I dig through gear to find traction devices for my shoes. Gloves for hands, beanie for head, buff for neck—I’m ready to go.
Breathing heavily while hiking up our driveway, which sits at 9000 feet elevation, I feel the freezing air shock my lungs, and I almost turn back. I’m discouraged by the awkwardness of wearing these extra layers and shuffling through the snow on microspikes strapped to my shoes. My fingers quickly numb because I mistakenly wore too-thin gloves.
I think of the adage, “Never judge a run by the first mile.” Surely, I will warm up and feel better.
I pause at the top of the driveway to study the scene. A rosy alpenglow bathes Wilson Peak and Little Cone in soft light.
It’s achingly beautiful, enhanced when viewed through the mental lens of harsh reality. Because climate change and drought are real, we celebrate this snow more than ever. Because conflict rages in so many regions around the globe, we appreciate this peace. Because cities grow ever more crowded, we treasure this open space.
I look at the rectangular log cabin across the road, which my parents built when I was a kid and where my brother and sister-in-law now live. I spot my brother David warming up his car and scraping the icy windows, getting ready to drive to town and teach at the high school. We talk briefly about the day ahead. Seeing him getting to work in the frosty cold boosts my resolve to toughen up and get my run done.
I transition from hiking to running up our dirt county road. Like a furnace, my core and legs heat up and gradually send warmth to extremities. After a mile, my stride is flowing, and I’m soothed by the rhythmic sound of footsteps crunching on snow.
To think, I almost missed this run and these views because I didn’t want to be cold. I just needed to winterize my running routine, like everything else.
What kinds of things do you do to get ready for winter? I hope you’ll share any stories or practical tips related to winterizing in the comments below.
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Loved reading this!