It was a winter much like this one.

I’m in a snow-covered meadow at the edge of the woods. The snow’s up to my knees. Slogging in was slow work, but fun. My stamina was good. And I was safely within sight of a distant farm. No problem. Or so I thought.

In low bushes there were Pine Siskins, streaky brown with spots of yellow. I’d seen Blue Jays, a tree full of Cedar Waxwings. Dark-eyed Juncos with white tail feathers flashing. These birds were not rare, but it was good to count them and count on them.

I saw a Red-bellied Woodpecker up ahead but didn’t want to walk further. This woodpecker is just as likely outside my kitchen window, and I was getting tired.

Then I saw a hefty purple bird. Could it be a Crossbill? A White-Winged Crossbill? That’s something I’ve never seen, with its screwy beak. I headed after it. The sun was going down, but I could still see the farm across the snowy meadow. So why not?.

I was getting out of breath as I pushed through the snow, but had to check out the Crossbill. The nearer I got, the further it flew. I never got close enough to nail the sighting. Then I got really tired. I’m outta here, I figured. I began to cut across the field toward the farm. Shortest distance between two points, right?

My boots are packed with snow. My legs burn. My lungs hurt. I start to think that I might not make it. Don’t panic. Breathe. Take one step at a time. The snow’s thigh-high but I’m moving. Suddenly it gets easier because the ground is firmer. No more grassy stubble under the snow. A smooth floor. Cool.

Then I feel it sag slightly. I think…wasn’t there a pond here? I remember a pond last summer. I’m on ice. And it’s cracking. I freeze. Then slowly backtrack, until I feel grass under my feet again.

Made it. But did I? I’m still in deep, no cell phone, no people. It’s getting dark and I’m totally out of gas. I sit. My butt’s in the snow. I lie back, sucking air that’s heavy with cold. Moisture on my eyes feels crisp, turning icy as I blink.

So how does this end? The only way: I force myself to move. I inch along the treeline where there’s no ice, avoiding the straight-line-to-the-farm idea. Step by step, I get out. Once the clutch of unease passed, it wasn’t impossible.

I even went back the next day looking for the Crossbill but didn’t see it. Six months later I saw a Yellow-billed Cuckoo there, a bird that has become rare in our area. I thought: last winter there was a cuckoo on the same spot.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, December 29th, 2009 at 12:36 am and is filed under "Daily Sightings" A Blog. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.