As I veer off the tree-lined snowmobile trail and set my snowshoes on a meandering path through the open meadow, the wind finds my face. I jog along the twisting trail through the meadow, a trail I’ve packed down on previous outings, having some fun laying out a path with plenty of turns.
I’m snowshoeing at night but not in darkness as the ambient light from the nearby city teams up with the diffused light from a full moon above the clouds. There’s enough illumination to easily see my course. My snowshoes faithfully follow that path, crunch, crunch, crunch on the packed whiteness.
I come out to a large field of picked corn. The wind is more noticeable here, catching more of me as I head west, the last row of corn stubble as my guide. I now get a wide look at the sky as it partially clears. The clouds are racing eastward, chased by a wind that is suddenly switching from southwest to northwest.
As I jog along I think about the wind, how it dictates my direction and choice of clothing. I check the wind by the small windmill in the yard before I leave (I trust it more than my phone). Head into the wind first, I tell myself, and then let it push me home after I’ve worked up a sweat.
Right now I’m working up that sweat as the wind bites at my face. I continue westward, tugging my collar a bit higher, my cap a bit lower, songs about the wind filling my mind in the quiet night. On this night, it’s “Against the Wind.” Still running against the wind.
Then I turn to reverse my steps, and just that suddenly the wind is my friend. But if I think the wind is pushing me home, I’m only half right. I’m also following the wind home, running in second place. Of the wind, poet Alan Alexander Milne penned, “It’s flying from somewhere as fast as it can, I couldn’t keep up with it, not if I ran.”