Prodigal Return

 

November woods

      Summer's secrets revealed

 

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I've set a new record for silence. Lamely I said, “But I've nothing to share.”

“You've got a lot to share,” she said, then ticked off a list of things. “Brooklyn, Thanksgiving, the accident, our trip to Italy.”

She's right, of course. I have no reason not to have written in all this time. I've plenty that I could say. I've even been thinking of telling you about the new interstate 69 extension from Evansville to Indianapolis, but have never gotten a handle on just how to start. That's a big subject. Perhaps, if I should continue to write now that I've started, I'll get to that. It's important. It has altered the tenor of my nightmare, some for the better, some for the worse.

But what inspired me to write today has nothing to do with the long list of possible subjects that Cate enumerated. It harkens all the way back to my first trip to Europe, about two years ago. But let me start at the beginning:

Last winter was exceptionally mild. The forecasts for this winter have been all over the place, from another mild season to a brutal one. Our autumn has been mild, for sure, but given recent events I'd lay odds the later prognostication is more likely; “brutal.” It's not yet officially winter and already we've had freezing rain, snow and bitter cold temperatures. Our high today was only 18°.

I've been wearing long underwear, but for today's cold temperatures I dug out my good hiking base layer. It reminded me of where I got it and how lucky I can be.

I was with my daughter touring Wales in a rental car. We'd started out that morning from her home in Leeds, visited two castles and then got to our bed and breakfast as the light was failing. Our plan for the following morning was to take a hike in Snowdonia National Park, a route chosen for it's “many spectacular views of Mt. Snowdon.” True to it's name Snowdonia was covered in snow.

I was apprehensive because I'd left my long johns in Leeds. We were ditching the car outside of London, staying there a few nights, then taking the Eurostar to Paris for four nights, so I was living out of a day pack and had sought to lighten my load. I knew I'd be alright, it's not like we were heading into the back country, but also knew I'd be more comfortable with a thermal under layer. I was resolved to buy one if we saw a department store, which we hadn't in all of Wales, and didn't expect to find one in the quaint little town we were in then. Besides which, in the UK everything closes up at night, unlike here in the States, so even if there had been one...

So what are the odds? Walking into town to find a pub, under the streetlamps, we came across a mountain outfitter's not only open, but with a store wide sale happening. I got an awesome base layer and though I spent more than I would for your run of the mill thermals the sale practically negated the difference between the dollar and the pound. And they are unquestionably better than your run of the mill thermals.

I think I worked up a sweat on the hike. Unfortunately the world was enveloped in fog that morning and we couldn't even see Mt. Snowdon, but still had a great time. I think you can see why digging them out from the bottom drawer this morning brought a smile to my face, why I wanted to share.

 

It occurs to me now that I might have already told you this story. I'm not going to go back and look, nor am I going to worry about it. Why waste all this writing when it's so hard for me to get to doing it anymore? In the past when I've had a long hiatus I've always come back saying, “I'm going to do it, I'm going to write regularly,” then never do. So today there are no promises, only possibilities.