It is the first of February and it is 15 degrees outside. January has gone once again and I have no regrets at its passing. But February can be a mean month, on the one hand tantalizing me with a day over 40 degrees, then slamming down the next day with snow and ice and temperatures in the teens. At the same time, the shadows shorten while the sun takes longer to make its arc over the red mesas. And I am sitting here waiting. Waiting for a glimpse of the first bulbs to appear along the garden wall. Waiting for the canyons to drip dry so that I can explore them once again.
I don’t like snow. I grew up without it south of San Francisco in what was once the Valley of Heart’s Delight but has now turned to Silicon. Back then an infrequent cold snap might cause a thin veneer of ice to form over the rain puddles. On our way to school, we would stomp on the slick surface and watch it heave and crack. But the snow stayed far away. We could see it occasionally on the top of Mount Hamilton or, once in a blue moon, up along the ridges of Skyline Boulevard under redwoods and madrone.
My folks never skied. Never did winter sports or vacations. I was blissfully unaware of frozen landscapes until one February when I participated in a church youth group ski trip. A bunch of us took a bus ride up to Dodge Ridge, stayed two nights in a nearby lodge, and the non-skiers like myself spent the days throwing snowballs and tobogganing down the steepest slopes we could find. I met my first real girl friend on that trip. And we sat together holding hands on the way home as the bus left the mountains behind and descended back into the lowlands.
Both of my parents’ birthdays and their wedding anniversary happened in February, so I was always scrambling that month to find proper cards and presents.
When I moved to Canyonlands as a park ranger in the 70s, I experienced my first real and regular snowfalls. It stuck like white frosting to the red rock cliffs and flocked the pinyon and juniper trees. I would have to scrape it off the government jeep in the mornings before going on patrol. It was both lovely and fearful as I labored to get up the Dugway on my way to Moab for supplies. But interspersed between February storms would be days of crystal clear skies and air sharp like peppermint, canyons limned in ice, hidden ancient ruins untouched by the weather. You could curl up in one of those alcoves and feel the warmth.
For me, February has its ups and downs, and memories both happy and sad. Now I take it one day at a time, knowing there will be disappointments, happy surprises and little detours along the way.
