First snow of the season.
When I was very small I used to spend a lot of time at my grandparent’s tiny shingled cabin in Connecticut, on the banks of the Quinnipiac River, just as it started to spread out into delta before pouring into the Atlantic. But where we were was sheltered, and the river was usually quiet there.
I would sleep curled up on the window seat in the alcove that looked out over the wild grassy yard that sloped down to the water. One morning when I was about three or four years old I woke up and things didn’t feel right. I climbed up to the window sill and looked out, and all I could see was water and fog. The river had breached its banks and the water was lapping up under the cabin (which was on short stilts for this reason). There was no bank, no tree line, no sky, no dock, no point of orientation. To the four-year-old imagination, this was big. I was sure we were floating out to sea.
Thinking of it now, I’m sure I’ve told this story here before. But these reminded me of it, so here we are again.
Just another wow moment from the Sangre de Cristo mountains, on the edge of Colorado’s San Luis Valley
I miss living in that shadow.
In honor of Nevada Day, I dug out my favorite of the probably thousands of photos I’ve taken in this amazing state. It was taken in October 2007, and I had been away for several years, living in New Mexico and Colorado, which I also loved, but we had come back through on a road trip. We were going back home the southern route, and on a remote road down in Esmeralda County, skirting the California border near Boundary Peak, a herd of wild horses stampeded across the road and came to a blustery stop on the other side. We managed to get the window down and snap this very imperfect but awesome photo as the dust was still settling.
My heart was pounding, and later settled into a deep sense of homesickness. I knew I was a Nevadan, then, and came home for good less than a year later.
Happy Nevada Day!
Panorama of our camp site this weekend, caught in a rare moment of sun. You’ll have to squint to see our tent (which, after a night of intermittent sleet and wind, was iced over when we woke up). But the spot was so perfect, and we had so many blankets, we didn’t care.
We spent a week at Shane’s family cabin in the boundary waters of far northern Minnesota earlier this month. It’s a boat-in cabin with no roads, no cell service, no visible neighbors, no wifi. In other words, it was heaven. Here are a few select moments. You can see the rest over at Instagram.
calm before the storm — egor fedorov