A trace of snow

A trace of snow covers Roundtop Mountain and the low valley between the mountain and the orchards.  In the early morning the old road looks especially wintry today.  The old road winds along Beaver Creek, following its every curve, rising and falling a bit where the creek dives into a deeper spot or where the banks are too steep for a path, let alone a road.

In summer and fall I walk this road regularly.  Few vehicles ever pass and those only the Roundtop crew heading over to check on a pump or a well.  So when I walk it, I have the mountain to myself.  In snowy weather, I walk it less frequently, perhaps just 2-3 times over the winter.  The valley holds the cold as close as a lover, and the paths are icy. The hours of daylight are short, too, which lessens the time to get in and out again before dark.

Even in this time, though, the road calls to me.  That curve up ahead, where the road disappears into the forest, draws me like a magnet.  How can anyone resist the call of a road that winds into the woods, with a hint of still-invisible wonders up ahead?  Even though I know every curve and hollow, every rise and fall of that road, it still draws me in.