As the first delicate flakes of snow drift down from a sky pregnant with billions more, a kind of delirious euphoria fills my soul as I know, from past experience, that if this keeps up, by morning the big bad world will have completely disappeared and that peace and tranquillity will rule as they aught.
Mountain living is a pleasure or, if you are physically and mentally unprepared for the challenges it throws up, an endurance test of the hardest kind irrespective of the season although, admittedly, winter has the potential to be the most difficult time of all. Stockpiling stores of food, fuel, candles, medicines and other basic necessities of life is relatively easy to do, especially if you have past experience but what is not so easy is developing the strength of mental preparedness required to stave off the blues.
When it comes right down to the nitty-gritty, everything, and I do mean everything, is down to a state of mind. It’s bitterly cold, minus 13°C in early January and winter is just getting into its stride. The water pipes are frozen solid so water has to be hauled in from the storage tanks out in the garden, firewood has to be chopped down to size, the electricity keeps disappearing but that’s nothing new and it has snowed so heavily that roads are closed and I haven’t seen a single soul for eight days and counting but I am still smiling.
I smile in awe at the incredible beauty of a golden pink sunrise above a veritable sea of clouds obscuring the valley below and glinting, icily, off snow festooned trees, smile with pleasure on hearing birds greet the day with pure, unadulterated joy, smile as the invigorating mountain air jolts my senses into top gear and even manage a smile at the unplanned snow angel I made after slipping down the back steps on my way to smash pond ice so that the birds can drink.
On days of crisp, frozen beauty, it is a delight, wearing as many layers of warm clothes as I can conceivably get on, to hear the resonating crunch of snow under my boots as I wander hither and thither in the garden or, when feeling adventurous, ramble around the mountainside and forest just to enjoy each new miracle as it unfolds: The intricate manner in which ice rimes a living pinecone, a row of sparkling icicles decorating rocks above a tumbling stream turned solid ice, snow crystals clinging to the feathered plumes of tall grasses, fox prints along the track and, wonder of wonder, a perfect set of leopard prints too.
The house is like a fridge, of course, until I clean out the remains of the previous night’s fire, bring in wood and get the stove going again and then, within no time at all, the room is comfortably warm providing, that is, the outside doors are kept closed which, on sunny days, I loathe to do. I hate the claustrophobic atmosphere of being closed in much preferring, instead, to tune in to nature as closely as I possibly can even if this means wearing outdoor clothes inside. Come sunset though, the doors are firmly closed and the house is generally snug and warm with a pan of something nourishing — nihari, haleem or homemade soup — bubbling away on top of the wood burning stove alongside a yellow enamel coffee pot emitting steam and fragrance.
When the power is on there is light and music and, providing that the phone is working too, the internet. When it is off there is the choice of soft candle light or the harsh light of an emergency light until its battery runs out of steam and, if I feel the need, I can put on my Mp3 player and listen to music while I do something constructive like thread peanut garlands for the birds, polish boots, polish brasses or, if I’m feeling creative, mess around with oil paints and canvas — the resultant paintings never as good in daylight as they were under muted conditions.
Mentally accepting that this, for now, is life and that, until the roads open, this is how it will be is the only sensible way to survive and I have come to relish these periods of solitariness as being rejuvenating spans of personal mediation combined with reflection and forward planning. The alternative….to moan, groan, curse and wail would be excruciatingly self destructive and would be liable to induce severe depression, self doubt and an abysmal depth of misery I can well do without.Life is, after all is said and done, what you make of it and I am perfectly happy with my own recipe so far.