As Long as Winter Holds Its Breath

Clear arctic air came screaming in from the north this week, riding a penetrating, relentless wind. A swirl of damp, mild air made a brief appearance, a lost visitor from warmer climes, but it was quickly torn to shreds, squeezed dry by winter’s cold bony hands, and sent back southward with a mighty blast. For hours and hours the wind blew until, somewhere in the middle of the night (it’s hard to know exactly when because the power was out), it stopped.

The fullest, deepest, coldest part of the season was here and, in the morning, it seemed to be resting. Not a breeze stirred. The sun shined bright but the blue sky was deceptive — it was cold out there. I usually say it ain’t cold if your boogers ain’t froze, but I didn’t feel like actually checking myself. I did notice, though, as I drank my coffee and watched the birds at the feeders, that a little puff of steam came out every time a blue jay pooped and that’s good enough for me.

With surface temperatures matching that of the still air, at well below zero (that would be well below zero to our metric friends), and the extra moisture left behind by that silly warm front, there was only one appropriate thing to do.

I got dressed, went out, and looked for frost.

If I lived in the Caribbean I’d take pictures of sand, but I do not. It’s January in Vermont so I take pictures of frost. Window frost is nice, and hoar frost on the willows is lovely, but there are a few spots I know where the combination of damp and cold is just right for the formation of really impressive frost.

The slightest breeze is too much for these delicate structures to bear. I hold my breath, or breathe to the side, hoping they will last long enough for a few shots. The tops of the trees moan and sway as the wind picks up, and a thousand icy feathers vibrate and shake.

The shady side of an old stone dam, where brook trout fry were once raised by the hundreds, provides all the moisture and shelter needed for these large plumes. The mosses stay green all year.

Even icicles, once their flow has stopped, collect frost back here.

Conditions have to be just right for frost like this to form. Even if the cold lingers (and it looks like it will), and things remain just so, these delicate formations of crystallized air can only last as long as winter can hold its breath.

More Photos of Frost: Temporary Embellishments; Like Dew, Only Frozen

Four Photos of Ice

 

Quill’s Poetry Corner

It’s still ten below at ten o’clock and the first pot of coffee just kicked in, half-way through the second. A hoary morning, for sure, and even though the sun shines bright through a clear lens of chill arctic air, dark shadows loom, stretching northward across the ice, clawing for purchase while being drawn slowly south.

I’ll go back out, soon enough, but for now I am content to sit across from a south-facing window and study poetry. Everyone could benefit from a little poetry now and then, so I share with you now what I am reading today.

Lines Upon a Tranquil Brow

by Walt Kelly

Have you ever,

while pondering the ways of the morn,

thought to save just a bit,

just a drop in the horn,

to pour in the evening or late afternoon

or during the night when we’re

shining the moon?

Have you ever cried out,

while counting the snow,

while watching the tomtit warble

hello …

“Break out the cigars, this life

is for squirrels;

we’re off to the drugstore

to whistle at girls”

(Used with love, but not permission)

Thank You for Littering

A large part of Vermont’s economy depends on visits by people from other places. Her summers are bucolic, her fall foliage is legendary and, in winter, skiers flock to her slopes from miles around (spring is a tortuous slog through mud and black flies, better left unmentioned). After half the state was turned inside-out and strewn about the countryside by Tropical Storm Irene, I beat the drum as best I could and encouraged people to visit and maybe spend a little cash to help get us going again and, after what has been a mild, brown start to winter, I am happy to welcome our first real snow and the economic shot in the arm that comes with it.

There are perhaps four permanent residences on our hill, but there are twice that many second homes and vacation get aways. Some of those houses are rented out, short term, to people who come to ski at one of the nearby resorts. This weekend, every unfamiliar vehicle going up and down our road has had New Jersey plates.

Our road is not much, by most anyone’s standards. Mud in the spring, bumpy, rutted dirt in summer and fall, I think it is actually at its best in winter, when it is covered with a nice, hard layer of packed snow and ice, topped by a sprinkling of sand.

 When this particular group of people from New Jersey is here, there is also a sprinkling of litter.

Come on, man.

They’re kind of wearing out their welcome. Maybe one cup doesn’t make a difference along a road in New Jersey, what with everyone throwing trash out their windows, but around here it sticks out like a sore thumb. So do they.

What follows was originally posted as a three-parter but, inspired by the love I feel today toward the residents of the Garden State, I have dusted it off, changed the formatting, and cleaned it up, presenting it now, as a gift to the Chamber of Commerce.

Snow Wraiths

The Outdoor Blogger Network’s most recent photo prompt is “The Look of Winter.” A week ago I would have posted a photo of brown woods and green ice. Today, I post this:

Fish in a Barrel Pond, January 13, 2012

 

One 1250th of a second. A random snippet of time, an instant, now long gone — never to occur again — but preserved forever in cyber space. Weird.

That image says something, conveys a feeling, suggests a mood, but it is just one tiny note in an opus. This little opus here is a bit more than 150,000 notes long:

 

A Package from Sweden and Another Story not About Fishing

The internet allows us to communicate with, and get to know, people who live far away, in distant lands. There are times it almost doesn’t seem real. I fire up my computer and there you all are, your words and pictures on my screen any time I want. Wires, electricity, zeroes and ones combine to produce a wondrous illusion, instantaneously, allowing us to share words, pictures, and more with people we may never know in person, wherever in the world they may be.

Back in December, Marc Fauvet, of Limp Cobra fame, announced The Friggin’ Awesome Limp Cobra Holiday Photo Contest!, with the only requirement being that said photo must have a fly in it. The results of the contest can be seen HERE. The real winner was Ulf Börjesson, who takes wonderful photos and keeps the blog [Mad] Trout, but he declined, allowing my photo to move from second place to first!

We know a digital image can travel thousands of miles in a matter of seconds but how long does it take for a DVD to travel from Sweden to Vermont? Thanks to Marc and Ulf, we know the answer to that question: Three friggin’ weeks!

I am looking forward to watching this one and trying out some of what it has to offer. Perhaps I’ll do a review in a few weeks. Thanks again, Marc and Ulf!

******

With winter’s banshees pummeling the windows and moaning at the door, the Shack Nasties lurk in dark corners. They follow me across the dooryard as I go about my chores and huddle with me beneath my blankets when I come back in, whispering sweet nothings in my ear, reminding me of far-away spring and a distant, misty, evening rise.

Screw the Shack Nasties, Cabin Fever, or what ever you want to call it. Here is a story, not about fishing:

When I was a kid, going to the mall was a special treat. A world unto itself, the mall was a new concept and my family went to walk and gawk as much as to shop, joining the throngs that circulated through the climate-controlled, concrete, chrome and glass corridors like schools of fish. Whenever I became separated from the rest of our little group, my parents knew where to find me because there was one thing in that giant Church of the Almighty Dollar that invariably drew me in, like a moth to a flame. Somehow, I always ended up in front of the County Seat Jeans Emporium, staring in wide-eyed wonder at the gargantuan pair of pants hanging from the ceiling inside. My nine-year-old mind was absolutely boggled by the size of those pants. It was humbling to realize that the mall was a place where anyone could get anything they needed, but I shuddered as I imagined the person who needed those pants. Those pants weren’t just Levi’s. They were leviathan. My parents assured me that those giant pants were a joke and that no one could possibly need pants so large, and for years I believed them. Until I met Robbie Brown.

On the Last Afternoon of the Year

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What Are You Looking For?

I would like to take this opportunity to thank everyone who makes time to read The View from Fish in a Barrel Pond. Some of you have been muddling through my stuff for quite a while now. Some of you found your way here via The Outdoor Blogger Network; some of you were pointed this way by friends and some of you were invited in; some of you stumbled across this blog by sheer dumb luck and liked it enough to subscribe, and most of you probably wonder sometimes just what the heck is going on around here.

As away the old year passes, I’ve been pondering an appropriate year-end wrap up. A “Best of 2011″ post crossed my mind but a lot of bloggers do those. I thought about posting a list of resolutions I plan to stick to in the upcoming year but I write fiction, not lies. In the end I decided to bring 2011 to a close by looking at my Search Term stats (provided by WordPress) to see just what sorts of things attract readers to the shores of Fish in a Barrel Pond.

I was just as surprised as you by what I found and, like you, I also sometimes wonder what the heck is going on around here. Thank you all for stopping by, whatever the reason, and the very best to you in 2012.

~Quill Gordon

*****

We might as well just get it out of the way. The number one search term that brought eyes to these pages in 2011 — with more than twice the views of number two — is just what fans of Fish in a Barrel Pond would expect:

And So This is Winter

As if on cue, rain started to fall shortly after I began writing A Pause in the Wobble the other day. As I wrote, the ice went from being hard, like thick glass, to something softer and more pliable, like plastic, as a giant puddle formed across its surface.

The rain that fell could only spread out across the level sheet and the mild air kept it from freezing, creating a lake on top of a lake.

(True story: I once had to transport a queen-size bed halfway across the state of Vermont and then across a mile and a half of ice on Lake Champlain. Used a pickup truck and, of course, it rained. It rained a lot. It rained so much there was six inches of water standing on the ice when we got there so I walked the entire way, slipping and splashing, looking for holes, while Mrs. Gordon and her brother followed slowly in the truck, doors open and seat belts off, just in case. Kind of like Ice Road Truckers, but with a lot more screaming. Mrs. Gordon was a little upset, too.)

The images above are just not what one would expect to see in Vermont a few days before Christmas, but as quickly as things changed the other night, they changed again last night and these are some pictures I took when I went out this morning:

A Pause in the Wobble

The winter solstice marks the return of lengthening days and we talk about more hours of light but, in reality, the difference between today and tomorrow will be measured in seconds. It’s a slow retreat from the darkness but those seconds add up and around here, at this time of year, we take what we can get, especially with the truly cold time still ahead.

The word “solstice” actually refers to the sun seeming to stand still, as today is essentially the same length as yesterday and yesterday was as short as the day before that. The days have been growing progressively shorter, and we know they will be growing longer, but first there is a pause. The earth wobbles on its axis, tilting us away from the sun and then back again, giving us our grand procession of seasons, and this pause is probably a good thing. If it didn’t take three full days to reverse the direction of the tilt, crash helmets and other protective gear would probably be the hot gifts of the season.

In June, the solstice days bring long, dreamy twilights and short nights that brighten into leisurely dawns. The days shorten noticeably from there – more quickly, it seems, than they lengthen from here – and thoughts of winter creep in, just like the no-see-ums of summer at the cuffs of my sleeves. It might seem strange, trying to remember where I put the snow shovel while waiting for mayflies to hatch, but it’s no stranger than thinking about then, now. Remembering June comes easily on an overcast December day that couldn’t get cranked up to much more than dim.