The trees are covered with a heavy hoarfrost, and around noon I remember the sun is bound to melt it any moment and a walk would be just the ticket. I grab the fanny pack with the camera, snap its buckle shut around my waist, and step out into the blue sky. At the end of the driveway, I turn and glance toward our little house.

Soon I am beyond the shelter of the trees, and realize the heavy sweater I’d thought it was safe to wear will never do. I come back indoors to put on a jacket. That’s when Scott stops in for lunch, and Everett asks for a ski-doo ride. Scott suggests I take him.

So away we go, around the north side of the yard, then south across the road onto Monte’s field, where the wind is cold enough to freeze my ears and the exposed skin of my neck.

Everett seems content to quit after that. Me, I'm glad to shut off the noisy motor and go for a walk, which is where I’d been headed when he sidetracked me for a ski-doo ride.

He goes straight to the ice hill at the end of our driveway.

I banged myself up pretty good on that thing the other day. The slide is extremely steep, and I fell off the carpet every time I attempted it. Whacked my elbow, my lower back a couple times, and was feeling somewhat beat up after only about five slides.

I leave Everett to his seasonal passion and carry on out to the road.

Jester is thrilled to come along and I can’t resist letting him off the leash once we are down the road a-ways. What a glittering day it is, blue-skied and only slightly crisp.

We have fattened Jester up over the past half-year or so. He looks healthy and robust, and he means business. You’d think he was on the job or something, the way he takes off at a steady clip. He doesn’t stay beside me, but scouts ahead and then runs past me and checks out the scents and sights behind. I keep walking west, toward town.

Some people are enamoured of clotheslines.
I am snagged on fencelines.

Here is my corner; I turn and walk straight north.

The dog is concentrating on whatever his shnozz has turned up, and I am well down the road before he decides to catch up.

When he does, he buzzes right on past me to see what’s ahead.

I am taken with the snowdrifts in the ditch, where the wind has whipped them into still white waves.
 

The next farm is about a mile down the road, but I can’t go that far with the dog, especially if he is not on the leash. He might fight with the neighbours’ dog or chase their cattle. I stop short of their yard, far enough back that the dog, hurrying on ahead, hasn’t reached their driveway yet.

The field to my left, under its light cover of snow, seems to listen silently.
 

I turn around and begin my trek home. The biting pre-spring breeze is remembered only when I must, now, face into it. I’m getting tired, too. It’s been a long time since I walked this far, and I’ve gotten out of shape.

I do not manage to collar the dog until we are at ‘the hill’ ahead.

Fortunately he lets me corner him next to several rows of hay bales. I quickly slip the chokechain over his head.  Whew. That’s a relief. I am always afraid I will have to circle the yard at a distance until he deigns to check in with me. Not that a sit-down in a sheltered spot of sunshine would be so bad, especially if I’d brought a little flask of liqueur along. The thought reminds me of hiking with some brew, my trusty hounds, and a pad of writing paper, through the bush north of Sandy Bay, Saskatchewan, to a quiet spot on the high bank of a river on a mild winter day. There I sat for several hours writing a long, long letter to a friend. Lovely afternoon, as I recall.

But here we are, home again.

Contrary to my expectations, the hoarfrost still clings to the bare branches and twigs. As do the Christmas lights strung down one side of our driveway.