|my favorite tree: Duck Land's willow|
I remembered how to pee on these trails and worried I'd be found (hint: you don't take off your skis, nor do you leave the trail, nor do you do this at the top of a hill because once before I made a single yellow line all the way down).
I paused for the chocolates, apple and cheese Huck packed, taking my skis off to sit on a log.
And in the 7 whole, entire degrees, my binding froze open. I spent 20 minutes trying to get it to clamp down. Huck suggested later that I could have peed on it. Really? Just like a man to imagine that would be easy in a foot or so of snow. But it would take considerable effort, agility, contortionality, and dumb luck to have gotten that steaming delivery where it needed to go and then I'd have frozen pee all over my skis.
|long shadow with fanny pack|
I've listened to her recount every sighting for the last two days. That Heron, oh MOM! The dipper. The Cooper's hawk. The scads of magpies. She was giddy. She's still riding high. I asked if she wanted to join the Audubon society, and she mock-swooned with joy. And then danced around the house. I don't really get her passion for this, but I'm not going to stand in it's way. And because I'm the mom, I believe I'm going to learn every damn little song bird in this region. It's not the worse thing in the world. At least it's not baseball cards or ice skating.
|AFTER 7 hours in 10 degrees|