Reflections from a snowy walk

An icy rain transformed slowly into great puffs of snow this morning as I began the 4km trek to school. The steady patter of rain lessened, with fat flakes of snow falling silently to ground with a hush, like the footsteps of a ninja. The patter continued  in the forest to my left, a thousand drops of moisture falling upon a bed of dried and crinkly leaves.

Within the swirl of white, I could but hardly see a quarter mile in any direction. The wide soybean fields--now harvested and frizzy with leftover chaff--disappeared into a haze of white and gray. The scene reminded me of the tales of Emil Zatopek, the Czech distance runner who apparently did 20-mile long runs through the snow in army boots; or Paavo Nurmi, who spent his winters on brisk long walks through the frozen, Finnish countryside. Then again New Balance 860s are not army boots, and Pennsylvania in November is not Finland in February. 

One must be careful when moving over newly-fallen snow; the stuff is wet, slippery, and capable of rendering worn-out trainers a poorly-designed set of skis. Due caution is advised.

Heading back to the car from school (another 4km), I noticed the boot-prints of a man and his dog. I'm pretty sure it's a man at least, because I've seen a man on several occasions walking his dog through the meadow where I found the aforementioned prints. He's not a tall fellow, yet in comparing his prints to mine I noticed he has a longer stride than me. This is not surprising actually, as almost everyone does. I don't know why it is, but relative to the length of my legs my stride is rather short. As a result I'm frequently passed by walkers in the park, even when I feel I'm setting a good pace. The thing is, as Daniels (1998) tells us, speed in walking and running is a function of stride length and stride frequency; in combination the variables produce a specific speed. For example, a long stride with a low frequency can yield the same speed as a short stride with a high frequency. Daniels advocates the latter because for most people a shorter stride is more efficient, but several times in the park I've come across walkers (including very old women) who not only match my stride-frequency, but come motoring by with a much longer stride. My dad is like this too, and I can rarely keep up with him without jogging. Seeing my prints in the snow  next to those of others only reminded me of how short my stride actually is.

Finally, I remembered today how much I love watching snow fall. It's like a cross between falling leaves and rain. What's more, while the flakes fall at random they end up covering everywhere in a near-uniform, snowy coat. The same can't be said of logs, which tend to collect the most snow on the top and the least along the sides, like a Marine haircut. I had a haircut like that once. In both cases the resulting symmetry is somehow pleasing.

A snowy trek can be cold and uncomfortable, but also a time of thoughts and strange ruminations. I think sailors used to say that about the sea, but then I don't know.  Colors can look different, and familiar places, novel. Footprints show where other things has passed, be it a person, a squirrel, or some other creature. The crunch of snow underfoot leaves an impression which one can trace, like a long-forgotten letter through the snowy fields of time. Perhaps time is like snow, on which we all leave our marks. Perhaps learning history is like taking a walk in snow-clad fields. It's a thought anyway.

Happy Tuesday, friends :)