Still, this switch does not bode well for my need to get to the state library conference in Fairbanks in a couple days. And by “need,” I mean that the library has paid a huge hunk of annual budget for tickets and fees that won’t be reimbursed if I don’t actually attend. And by “need” I also mean that it’s a grant requirement that I do this, this year. So, no pressure, then.

Still, this view of the lane pretty much conveys what travel holds in store.

The last good day I can recall is Sunday. The sun was out; it was a day of cold and brilliance.

We walked out to the beach.

Although the surf was down, it was still rough out in the Inlet and the frozen spray drooped from everything it didn’t encase entirely.

It snowed some more and blew some more, so there was driveway-shoveling and bundling up to go anywhere. But by Wednesday, it had warmed up into the 30s and the snow had turned to a downpour.

So everything was coated in a deep, sodden sponge. Lovely walking, yeah. And dashing to shovel all of that mess off of the driveway before it got cold again and froze.

Luckily, our roof is so steep that we don’t need to worry about it, but I did cast a wary eye on the library building roof. Downstairs in the basement, water was running in under the back exit door, as it does. When I walked over to the Post Office to mail an interlibrary loan back to the originating library, having emailed them to say I’d done so but not to hold their breath waiting for it to show up any time soon, the impounded slush and water were nearly up to the tops of my XtraTufs.

But it’s February and it doesn’t stay warm any longer than it stays cold. The local backup generating plant has been running since Wednesday and you can barely see the harbor from here.

And the wind? Still blowing. Still sculpting the fresh snow as it heaps and carves and is slowly engulfing the bend-down alder branches.

The lane is pristine, all the way down to where Oz’s car is stuck in the snowbank. And it’s going to stay that way all day. Why go out? There won’t be any mail.

Snow that forms a pseudo-geologic record of all that’s transpired.

Snow that makes getting down our hill…exciting. Snow that doesn’t shift under the distributed weight of tires is still not necessarily snow that will stay in place under a single foot.

I love the look of fresh snow in the spruce against a blue sky.

Looking up, you can see that the snow is already starting to fall out of the trees, though.

It’s best not to linger.

Even once the snow has started falling away, bits linger, forming new patterns.

And after a bit of sun, it closes in again and there’s—what else?—more snow.

It got cold. That cold that collects frost on the outside of windows and seeps indoors to grab all of the moisture, too.

And the wind, how it howled and blew the snow about.

And it piled up even deeper yet.

Snow plastered everywhere.

That’s snow over my boots, over the bottom of my pants, over the bottom of my skirt, up to my knees.

Snow that cloaked everything and kept on falling.

At the library, tracked-in snow. No, I have no idea why the city doesn’t have a doormat here, but there never has been one. Or a shovel to clear away the snow on the step.

That wasn’t a busy day at the library, although a few folks braved the weather to come in. Brave is the operant term.

And now the sun has come round again. Maybe I’ll bundle up and go take some more photos.

As you can see, it’s still not very deep snow: the alders on the hillsides are barely covered.

But here in town, it’s plenty of snow to be underfoot. And the extra bonus of two days of rain amidst the snowfall added an extra dollop of icicle fun.

The thing about snow is that it recasts the landscape, rewriting the very notion of the place we saw last summer.

Where there was a parking lot and park, now is a snow disposal route. Our travel is defined by use, these days.

The activities–and homes–of summer stand cold and neglected under a sun that barely clears the south peaks and where the cold north wind tears the snow from the ridges and hurls it into the air.

The ordinary is transformed; new patterns arise.

And there is always work to be done.