October 4, 2013
I traveled to Denver for the 45th Division for Planetary Sciences conference in October, conveniently located three hours east of a dear friend of my mother. I drove west from the airport as the sun set and the haze around Denver gathered, darkening from a dusty rose to grey to black. I went over two mountain passes over 10,000 feet tall, feeling no ill effects as I adjusted to the altitude. Around the tunnels of Glenwood Canyon it began to rain, far better than snow for driving, but still exciting as the Jeep hydroplaned and lost traction on the highway. I continued onward and wound up in the tiny town of Silt, 97 miles from the Utah border with Colorado.
The morning dawned with a fresh if melting layer of snow, quietly falling as the dogs greeted me. I hauled around hay bales, fed miniature horses, and enjoyed a corner of the world where technology didn’t matter.
The world is soft and silent when snow falls. I can’t remember the last time I witnessed it accumulate.
Alison’s dressage horse, a gelding who thinks he’s a stallion, decided to go for a roll, then prance off into the snow. The other geldings gave him space to show off, everyone relishing the beauty of the first snow of October.