Winter is such a wonderful season. When the air becomes so cold that it’s crisp, and the leaves have all gone from their branches, and there’s specs of snow that are sprinkled over the foothills, it’s the most awe inspiring time. I always dreamed of snow, even when I lived in Southern California, and palm trees were green 365 days of the year, where June was the gloomiest month, yet the rest of the year the sun glistened off the Pacific.
I never understood why so many flocked to the Golden State, until I left and went east. Some time after being on the east coast and I then I knew. They say you never know what you have until it’s gone, and it’s true. But, despite the longing I always felt for California I wasn’t yet ready to return either. It’s a strange paradox.
Despite my upbringing and lack of any actual “weather,” growing up, I somehow ended up loving seasons. While I’m not anti-warm weather, and beach umbrellas–I love snorkeling as much as I love hiking–there’s just something about the snow. When I glance out my window and see a blanket of white covering the roads, sidewalk, and foothills, it’s magical; it’s like a new year, it’s a blank canvas that you can make into anything you want. Even the ugliest, muddiest, dirt road becomes beautiful with a layer of powder of it.
As the air grows even colder, and my face burns after thirty minutes of hiking, all I think is how good this feels. How clean the air smells, how fresh the snow looks, and how I love the crunch of day old snow under my hiking boots.
Sure, summer is great, but tell me what’s better than returning home from a hike in a winter wonderland, making a warm beverage, and snuggling up on the couch with a loved one? I’ll wait.
Stay warm my friends.
What's on my face 