I have two pairs of socks on, because pulling my boots off tends to pull off the oversized woollen socks with them, so I thought I’d try to save my toes. The boots are navy blue, sturdy but flexible, with a faux furry trim. I pull the laces as tight as they’ll go, so hard that they burn my fingers. Then I tie them, pulling them tighter still. Beads of sweat wet my hairline as I stand in my huge padded parka, the effort of preparation exhausting in the warmth of the cabin. My neighbour jokes we’ll be buried in our jackets. It is by them that we have come to recognise each other. You don’t see faces here. We potter around like little gnomes, our hoods pulled tightly down to stop the cold from biting us raw.
As I open the door and step out onto the porch, I think of home and how many new lives spring from the snow every time it falls. With carrot noses, twig arms, and the hats of childhood's past. Here, there are no such children of the snow. My instinct earlier when the light had not yet sunk away was to lie down in the whiteness and move my arms up and down. Rise carefully, and survey my creation. A snow angel, an indented shadow of myself, different from anyone else’s. How different it is here, where the snow is not something for us to exploit for our own pleasure, but something that simply is.
Now that the cloak of darkness has wrapped up the forest for the night, it is different. Not scary, no. I do not fear ghouls lurking in the trees. If anything, it is soothing, to exist in a world untouched by the ruckus of the metropolis. Though lights light the path we are about to walk, they are subtle and feel like friends. My neighbour and I have already remarked that we feel as though we are in Narnia, for the lampposts are almost the same – comforting and approachable in the white. Not like at home in Glasgow, where the rusted lamp posts with their orange glow stand like angry giants on the streets watching your every move.
I knock on my neighbour’s door to signal that I am ready for our journey.
'Ready?' I ask as she appears wrapped up the same as me.
'Ready,' she responds.
And so we go.
We walk, two silent figures in solidarity, as the blizzard nearly knocks us from our feet. I sift through the knee-deep snow, my legs heavy and foreign to my body as though I am wading through a dream. I watch how quickly the snow settles and wonder if I fell and cracked my head, how long it would take for the snow to cover me and leave me behind. I don’t say that. Firstly, because it is probably morbid. Secondly, because I have learned that to speak only lets the flakes catch the back of your throat leaving a lingering dry pain for days. If you do as you should, the elements will look after you. We are alone with them here, but I trust them.
The storm rages like an angry mother, drowning out whatever sounds of the night there might have been. There are wolves in the area, and I swear I’ve heard them howl in the night. Though that is probably my psyche desperate for the romance of it all. Every morning I search for their prints but with the snow so relentless, they would be gone as soon as they were created. So I paint pictures in my head of them prowling the perimeter of the cabin, peering in and watching me sleep. Preying on me or guarding me, it does not matter. What matters is they are there.
We have been walking for no more than a minute, yet it feels as though we have climbed the highest of mountains. Eventually, I see the comforting yellow glow from the window of the Barn. Our lovely Barn. Its name does not do justice to its function nor its charm. While it was once a barn long ago, now it is a social space for people to come together to cook, to laugh, and to feel the twinkling of new friendships. I open the door and usher my neighbour inside before me, then kick the snow from my boots and begin the long task of untying them. The comforting sound of voices drifts from the kitchen and I look forward to the evening ahead, as the snowy night roars on outside.