The sun is back with a vengeance, the moon is full, the aurora is streaming across the sky. The landscape is transfigured by light. Though the snow and ice have barely begun to melt, the alders have taken on an orange sheen and the spruces are photosynthesizing a dark luxuriant green. Broad swaths of creek, still solidly frozen beneath, are topped by slush and overflow, which inundates the trees on the banks and, overnight, forms a blue veneer somehow both spongy and brittle.
The parking lot has been plowed down to the gravel, thereby starting mud season. The first few winter coworkers are leaving (and us next week), and summer returners arriving. It hits just above freezing in the afternoon, and I can ski without gloves. We're all shocked to step outside and feel the warmth of the sun, and have been obliged to prop open the kitchen door and run the window fan. If this sounds premature, consider that from my coldest day in January at -48F, we've warmed up 80 degrees.
Along with truly superb skiing and snowshoeing, camp life is going strong with puzzles and crafts, poker, and movie nights. Months ago, we had agreed that as our wedding will be pretty small and informal, and friends and family already know the details, actual invitations weren't really necessary. But last week I thought it would be fun to ask everyone to collage postcards, just to send fun little momentos. A few nights later I baked quiche and brownies and lemon bars for an (early) going away party. After mutely clinking our paper cups of champagne, Jean-François shared a slideshow extolling the natural beauty, special sense of community, and select English words he picked up here. I had to leave early for work and sported my faded t-shirt and bleach-stained chef pants, but he wore a blue button-down -- decidedly "spiffy," and not "kinky."
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