The Weight Of Snow
The cold carries what cannot be left behind
Audio version with original music by
, pick up a copy on Bandcamp.She wanted to see her home as more than severe and unforgiving. That’s how it settled in her mind: unforgiving. Standing at the snowy edge of the forest with the frozen lake stretching out before her, the word lingered.
Perhaps a poet—one hardened enough to make it out this far—might have described it in more picturesque terms. But she wasn’t a poet, and for her, it was those things—a place she wished she could imagine as softer, kinder, but…
She moved forward, her eyes on the distance, where the snow gathered heavier against the far bank. There was a place she needed to see, a place waiting under all this weight.
“He always called me Queen Anne,” she thought. “I could’ve hit him with a brick every time it came out of his filthy mouth.”
She sees herself with the brick, the loose one from the hearth, the corner one that always gets kicked to the floor. Heavy in her palm, she feels it and sees herself moving it back into place.
The images of the brick fade as flecks of snow sweep her eyelashes like crystalline razors. The hood of the old jacket flapped as she glanced ahead, squinting.
“And here I am dragging my tired ass out to see him,” she said to herself, the words whisked away.
Footsteps, slow and steady, rose over one snowdrift after another and back down. Even on snowshoes, her body sank deeply in the white until the last rise sloped slowly downward toward the massive lake with mountains all around.
“I showed him how to cross the lake in winter, snow up to our armpits,” she laughed. “Showed him everything. The fool… before me he never chopped wood, never caulked a bath.”
She stood, huffing, big billows of vapor rising from the dark hood against the white.
With one hand she followed a toppled tree, roots frozen in place like a silent scream. Her hand slid along its long trunk, steadying herself as it sloped down, disappearing into the ice.
“But he had a charm. One that’d rub off on you from time to time.”
Pulling down her scarf, she let her tongue out, catching snow. She let her head stay uncovered that way for a long moment before running the back of her gloved hand across her mouth.
On the ridge beyond, she saw a stroke of black and watched the slowly moving shape. They were both going the same direction. She knew this shape, knew its shoulders, the lumber of its steps, the brow tines and the points that led up and away, filling out the heavy, bony rack.
He had called it Bullwinkle. Said it with a laugh every time. He even tried to feed it, make friends with it.
“Out paying your respects?” she said to the moose. It snorted as it sniffed down low. It wasn’t responding to her or anything but its own stomach.
Her eyes followed it as her steps slowed, listening. Far away was the wind, topping the trees and loosening the lightest snow on their shoulders. Further, there was nothing—maybe just a skitter of snow on the ice. Below her feet, the snow gathered in winding clumps like shifted sands, a pattern made by whim.
Snow is random, not orderly, she thought. It can come down from above and sideways at the same time. The wind lifts it off the bank, mixing with the flakes still falling, swirls it all up together before throwing it back down.
Like Liar’s Dice, she thought. That’s what he called it. Five dice in a cup—guess how many of each are face-up, then spill them out. For hours he’d win. She hated it. He always liked the bluffing games: Skulls & Roses or Perudo. Those kinds of games made her blood run.
If not for the snow billowing across the lake, she could retrace her steps from the day before. But it’s February, and the daily snow erases footprints as if with a giant eraser. Like him, erased. One day he was sipping tea, the fire crackling and the next he was somewhere else.
Early in the dark, he’d slipped from the sheets and made his way to the wood stove. She didn’t remember the sound of the kettle or him stoking the fire. But she heard the clatter of his mug, the chips making a tinkling sound as they scattered. She could hear it in every step on the ice—the slow creaking of the shards, sharp and high-pitched like whispers as her feet pressed lightly, moving forward.
She didn’t remember shaving his face except for watching the hair crackling and burning in the stove. A whoosh of energy, a wincing smell. She wondered how many years it had been since she’d seen his unshaven face. And in that, she thought she might have loved him more honestly had she seen the roundness of his cheeks, the dash cleft on his chin more often. He was there on the floor, then part of him, up the stove pipe and out into the air. On that calm day, the smoke would drape across the valley for hours, the man soaring above the trees. He’d like that.
“This place is too small for your books to be left out,” she told him many times. She meant it; the square of the cabin, such as it was, didn’t leave much room for not being neat. He was anything but tidy. His books, like his thoughts, were always a mess, always scattered about. A fool, off for some adventure or another in those words. He’d want to tell her about it while she was busy making supper or doing a puzzle. His daydreams drifted so far from the reality of their little cabin that she sometimes wondered if they even shared the same life. Her worries were never his, and she made sure he knew it—her feet always grounded while his were somewhere else.
A howl, echoing across the lake, snapped her back. That sound gave her shivers more than the ice under her feet—the winter wolves, hungry and willing to take a chance on anything. Then another howl, somewhere higher. They were converging, one making its way along the bank, the other angling down from the top of the ridge.
She’d lost track of Bullwinkle, his massive frame hiding from sight behind a tree for a moment before emerging again up ahead. His antlers dipped toward the ground, sifting through the drifts for greenery. Even at this distance, she could see the calm sureness in his steps—steady, deliberate. He knew the way, she thought, just the same as she did.
Wolves didn’t come around the cabin much. The last one that tried had met the snap of her shotgun—a spray of rock salt that sent it yelping into the trees. She could still remember the streak of its shadow on the snow, the trembling in her hands as she reloaded, just in case it circled back. They mostly kept their distance now. Bears, too—but bears didn’t work in teams.
“Come listen,” he had said from outside, the last light dipping behind the hills as the stars woke up. A single yip echoed from a cub on the far shore, followed by a whole litter—maybe five or six of them. Their playful chattering bounced off the water and through the thickened summer trees. She had been cautious, though, putting the shotgun behind the front door, just in case. He could have all the mosquitos and late-night howls he wanted; she had other things to attend to. Something in the house always needed fixing, tidying, or throwing away. Even without kids to tear things up, she was on duty for all the things he had no mind to.
The memory dissolved as her eyes fixed on Bullwinkle’s shape. He stood still, his large rack turned, one ear pricked forward. She followed his gaze to where she thought he might be listening. There, some ways off, she saw a gray shape making its way over the snow, its back rising and falling with each leap. She couldn’t hear it, but Bullwinkle could. It was bigger than a dog, heavy with fur, and running full-tilt. Strange, she thought, to see one running at such a pace.
She moved her feet faster on the ice, sliding more than stepping, as fast as she dared. Her man might have whooped or whistled to get Bullwinkle’s attention, but she knew better than that. A moose could outrun—or at least outfight—a single wolf, but if the wolf turned its attention on her, she’d stand no chance. A person, woman or not, alone on the ice would be torn apart.
That’s when she saw the others. Did she see three? Maybe it was four. Black and gray boulders of fur making their way down the rise from the far side behind the moose.
She wasn’t close enough to see their eyes, but she knew what they looked like. She knew they’d be narrowing in on the prey, or where the prey would be, somewhere ahead wherever the decoy chased it.
Crackling under her feet, the ice sent notice of her movement. But she knew this area and knew it would hold firm as she moved closer to the bank. She reasoned that you could probably drive a truck over it this time of year. Hers was back at the cabin, nestled under several feet of snow and a heavy tarp to keep the critters from chewing the wiring. Too far to go back in a hurry and not at all useful. She’d continue, carefully. All she could think of was a broken hip—one slip on the ice and down she’d go. Not underneath the ice, but out flat on top of it. She’d freeze, probably before the wolves found her. But they would, eventually.
She watched as the pack came down the slope. One yelped as it lost footing and fell from an embankment, tumbling.
The moose heard this, his legs quickly shifting. She saw it weighing the options, turning in a small circle to gather distances, taking in the scent. In the summer, it could tire them, lead them on a merry chase so long they’d eventually give up. But in the winter, with drifts up to its knees, the wolves would have an easier time catching him.
No, this would be a short chase, and a fight where the odds weren’t on the side of the moose.
Under a nearby tree at the bank, she ducked, the decoy wolf racing by just ahead of her. She could smell the wet fur long after the mottled streak had passed through the snow. Bullwinkle stomped, turning his body toward the beast. With a great flourish of size, his massive antlers swayed back and forth. She could see the hair on his back standing upright.
Shadows from behind grew closer, closing the distance. Every paw scrabbled, every flank stretched to reach what would certainly be a catch to feed the entire horde.
And then Bullwinkle froze, standing as still as the tree she was under. Snow seemed to hang in midair, uncertain about what would happen next. One ear flattened to the oncoming wolf as the other slowly angled to listen in the other direction.
She held her breath as she watched his skin tighten, his front hooves angling down, planting themselves, his body seeming to coil like a snake. A long, slow cloud of steam came from Bullwinkle’s nose as his head lowered, leveling itself at the approaching wolf.
From behind, the closest hound jumped. With a quick turn, faster than she’d ever seen a moose move, Bullwinkle twisted his massive body, swinging his rack in the air like a tentacled baseball bat. With a sharp crack, they made contact with the wolf’s muzzle and front legs, the full force twisting the wraith sideways. The dog let out a painful yelp and lay in the deep snow, its body writhing and seemingly unable to right itself.
In their tracks, the other dogs slid to a halt. The lead wolf that had darted past her was too far ahead, running too fast to stop as Bullwinkle swung his great head back in another arc. This time, the antlers, twisted and low, caught the streaking wolf in the midsection, its paws scratching the moose’s shoulder as it made contact. But the weight of the antlers and a pointed end caught purchase, plunging deep into the wolf’s ribs, its body lifting as the moose flicked its mighty head skyward.
Her eyes closed as she heard another scream—a piercing, debilitating howl from the lead wolf as its body was tossed into the snow near the moose. She could see the dog still writhing as the moose stood to full height and raised its front hooves, smashing them down again and again as the mottled gray shape in the snow turned to red. Yowls of pain from the wolf mixed with snorts and grunts from Bullwinkle as he jumped and kicked like a wild bronco being let out of a chute.
At once, it stopped as the moose let out a long bellow, a shout—not the playful trumpet she had heard in the past, but an angry, exhausted bombast of a sound that echoed across the lake.
Stopped in their race down the ridgeline, the other two dogs paused, watching intently. They neither turned away nor ran but stood fixed, observing the scene unfolding below. She watched as the pack, now half its size, seemed to deflate. Unlike humans, who would throw themselves headlong at the emotion of a situation, these scavengers only looked on as their kin moaned and, after a few moments, stopped moving completely.
She had never witnessed such forces collide, their brute, wild logic laid bare. It reminded her of the way something fights to stay alive long after it’s broken—the instinct to resist an ending, even when the cracks seem too deep to mend.
Watching Bullwinkle stand his ground, blood streaking his legs and breath clouding the air, she thought of the man—how he’d try to reason with her, to say his piece, even voice his anger, only to meet her sharp words and colder silences. Still, like the moose, he never wavered.
Pawing at the ground, the moose turned in a small circle, looking up the hill. Swinging his head side to side, he looked directly at the two salt-and-pepper hounds. For a long moment, all the animals stood still.
Above them, heavy clouds laden with morning snow descended the mountain in wisps and strands of gray and pearl. The two wolves on higher ground retreated back up the hill—not disappearing entirely, but giving the moose room to move freely.
From beneath the brush, she stepped forward, heavy clumps of snow falling from the disturbed branches above. Bullwinkle startled at the sound of her movement, swinging his massive head toward her.
Holding one hand aloft, she said nothing but stayed motionless. He huffed, vapor curling from his flared nostrils before the wind swept it away.
Could he smell her? Of course, she thought. She was upwind and, glancing at the hood of her coat, she remembered: she was wearing his jacket. Maybe Bullwinkle remembered him, too—the man and the basket of rotting apples he’d left near the cabin. Bullwinkle had eaten them all, along with her handmade basket.
She held steady until the giant moved first. The blood on his legs left deep red stains streaking the snowdrift behind him, vivid against the shadowless white.
She followed, her snowshoes sinking slightly with every step, keeping her distance and one eye on the ridge. Wolves, she knew, for all their pack camaraderie, were opportunists. This time of year, they wouldn’t hesitate to return to a fresh kill once it was safe. She knew they’d be waiting just over the ridge, hidden in the clouds.
Following the high edge of the lake was slow going, even on the windward side where the snow swells were thinner. She gulped heaping breaths of air, trying to keep up.
For every two of Bullwinkle’s steps, she took five, the pair forming an unlikely remuda. The wind stung her face, her legs heavy as she pushed forward, tightening her jaw to keep the thought of turning back at bay.
She thought of the cabin, now far behind, and of swimming too far from the shore. The man had been a strong swimmer, diving from their little dock and emerging halfway across the lake, never out of breath. She could still hear his laugh, sharp and full of life, echoing through the hills as she stood wrapped in a blanket, unwilling to join him.
“You’re an old fool!” she’d shout, dourly and for effect. She knew anything above a whisper carried easily over the still lake. He’d wave a hand, deflecting the words in his usual mild way. But her tone—the sting of it as the words whipped off her tongue—always landed. She remembered doing that a lot: being aggravated at him for doing something his way instead of hers, and saying so, just for spite.
Later, when he’d ask her about it, his hand gently trying to smooth the indelible crease on her forehead, she’d busy herself with something else. Her list of grievances, endless and ever-growing, was a stitch in her side she couldn’t let go. She wouldn’t let his kindness be a balm.
Their love was a mended patchwork quilt, worn but enduring. He was always comfortable wrapping her in the middle, his body close to hers, even as the tattered edges gave her fits. He’d spill grounds on her countertop, but the coffee was always hot in the morning. She’d see only weeds in the garden, overgrown with everything he’d planted—everything they’d need for the summer and to fill the root cellar for fall.
As Bullwinkle paused just a few feet ahead, she realized she’d reached her destination. She didn’t need to look up; she knew the tree’s branches by heart. Kneeling, her hand swiped at the flecks of snow covering the tough, wrinkled bark and the patch where his carving would always be.
Her gloved hand traced the letters, the lines deep and jagged, his familiar scrawl etched into the bark. Words had never been her strength, not like they were for poets.
If they had been, maybe the kinder words would have come out more often. More forgiving. More like the ones he’d left here just for her.
Alternate music to read by:
Susy Passes - Michael Giacchino
I See The Sky - Michael Giacchino
Long Ride Home - Patty Griffin
Backstory
In Dispatch No. 27, I wrote about how sometimes ideas don’t land right away. I meant it as a salve for writers who feel down when their words aren’t immediately lauded but it works in other ways, too. Some ideas take time to germinate in the right environment. This story took about 20 years for my brain to put the right pieces together.
As with much of what I write, I stumbled into this story sideways, beginning with what was, in an earlier draft, the opening line:
“He called me Queen Anne. I could have hit him with a brick every time it came out of his filthy mouth”
My only problem is I simply didn’t know where I was, or who might be saying this but I knew something about the order of words felt right.
The time travel part of the story gestation goes back to the early 2000’s and an afternoon cleaning house with my roommates. My BFF’s new girlfriend had taken over the stereo, changing it from our usual, top-volume Beastie Boys and introducing us to Patty Griffin’s album 1000 Kisses. It wasn’t as much of a departure as you might think. Our music selections, like Nashville, my hometown at the time, were eclectic. That day I let that album mostly become a soundtrack to my vacuuming, the seeds being cast but not taking root yet.
A few years later I happened on the album again and gave it a proper listen. Bam! I was blown away by her writing. By this point she was well-known in the Nashville music scene as a go-to songwriter having penned several top 10 memorable tunes. And, though we never met, our social circles orbited each other closely as I regularly heard tales about her skills and personality.
Listening closely, I found a Jessmyn West-like older sensibility in her words. But in some ways, while Patty Griffin’s lyrics feel like they emanate from another time, some place just beyond the pale, they’re often grounded in the emotion of now1.
In Long Ride Home Griffin tells a story in flashbacks as a widower rides home after a funeral. With three lines she sums up an aching, lingering regret—gladly given free rent in my head since hearing them:
Forty years go by with someone laying in your bed
Forty years of things you say you wish you'd never said
How hard would it have been to say some kinder words instead
All those years ago the seeds were planted, waiting. The recently penned opening line and the years-old lyrics clicked like two disparate puzzle pieces. I knew who this person was, I knew what happened. Funny how your brain works, isn’t it?
As the story fell into place I knew I wanted to make an audio version. Enter
. He’s not only an incredibly talented musician but has been gracious to let me use his music on previous projects2. With this story I planned to peruse his back catalog and gave him a very rough synopsis:“In the frozen wilderness, a grieving woman follows the shadow of a moose across the ice, carrying the weight of memories she can’t leave behind. As wolves circle, she is forced to confront the brutal beauty of survival—and the remnants of love that still tether her to the past.“
After reading an early draft he suggested creating something original. I thought, “What fool would turn that down?”
Nolan’s evocative track, The Nature Of Winter, is haunting and captures the vastness of the frozen landscape with its blend of melancholy and the powerful, yet quiet, tones emphasizing strength. I couldn’t have hoped for a better soundtrack for the character’s requiem journey, or a better partner than Nolan, whose music helped bring her world to life.
Please grab a copy on Bandcamp and support a great artist.
Also featuring music by Nolan Green
Seriously. Just go listen to Top of the world by The Dixie Chicks
Previous collaborations: Johatsu, The Zeno Paradox
 | A guest post by
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Wow, gentlemen! A real tour de force here. Every word about this very complex relationship rang true. Detailed, enveloping descriptions of the landscape and animals, made me shiver. Subtle, beautifully-placed sound. This is a work to really take pride in. I look forward to your offerings in the coming year. (Q: Is the voice-over AI? I wasn't sure.)
Striking word pictures make this story of adventure and reflection come alive. My wife is the rational thinker, the planner and organizer in our relationship, while I'm the absentminded, lost in thought, "It'll work out" partner. So I get where the main character is coming from with her regret for the resentments she held against her partner. I expected her to be making a pilgrimage to a gravesite. The carving in the tree worked better. Excellent writing and composition make this a classic.