As the temperature was above zero, the falling snow a week ago Wednesday was wet and sticky. With no wind, the tiny flakes fell straight down. I watched it gradually accumulate on the branches of ash and maple, on the needles and leaves of spruce and cedar. The snow was steady, piling on to the trees. By afternoon, looking down the road, everything was white. The road was snow covered, a grey-white turning to slush as cars drove by and the temperature remained above freezing. Trees were covered in bright white with dark needles peeking through, grey branches supporting the blanketing snow. Sky was pearly white with high clouds that sometimes released tiny flecks of white to add to the accumulation of snow crystals.
The house was shrouded in white, blanketed several inches deep. Snow piled in the valleys of the rooftop. But standing by the eavestrough downspout, I could hear gurgling. Snow was melting to water, trickling under the white blanket, along the troughs and into the ground. The driveway was slushy and soft. I knew that when the temperature dropped again, it would turn to ice.
The evening walk with the dog was a trek around the yard. Last year, a heavy wet snow early in the season had pulled cedars toward the ground, bending trunks toward the earth. One of those had required support to straighten again. I wanted to check what this snow had done.
With the tiny flakes, the weight was not as extreme. The snow was not as wet this far into winter. The cedars were coated but straight. The spruce seemed to have accumulated more. I shook off the branches that were pulled down to the ground, watched them bounce up, released from their burden, falling snow joining the blanket beneath. It was the same for each of the spruce trees by the water, beside the house, out front.
The juniper with its tight sturdy branches seemed to support the snow that clung to it like icing on a cupcake. A willow shrub with a myriad of small delicate branches, I worried about. It was a ball of white. This tree had been damaged by the same snow fall that hurt the cedars, so this too I shook off, freeing it from the weight of white. It shivered and stood tall.
Overnight, the wind shifted and grew to gusts. From inside, my eye caught small clumps of snow lifted off the branches of ash and alder, carried and then dropped, creating little divots in the blanket beneath. Wind flowed over the house, picked up tiny crystal flakes, creating a cloud of snow that billowed away from the house before falling to the ground. Dense spruce trees, however, clung to the snow the way an apple tree clings to fruit not yet ripe.
This was an east wind blowing off the water and up the hill. It carried snow from the back yard and built a drift beside the house. The path to the south is deepest. It will be easier to go all the way around the house to get to the bird feeders or bring the seed through the house and go out the downstairs back door. The path to the propane tanks had been partially filled in. Clearing it, I was reminded that drifted snow is not like the gusts billowing off the roof. It is packed hard enough to walk on, tough to break through with the shovel. Maybe I would be able to walk on the drift on the south side, a meter above the ground.
Another night and another increase in gusts. The windows of the house rattled. The direction was more north so that the drift that almost blocks the side door of the garage has not grown. Instead, the trees are being scoured clean. Only near the ground does a little snow still cling to the cedars and on the sheltered side of the spruces. The juniper that nestles against the house protected by a cedar is still covered with a solid blanket.
It is no wonder that the Inuit have so many words for snow. We need a few more to describe wind and the interaction between the two.
Cathy Hird lives on the traditional territory of the Saugeen Ojibway Nation
