There are moments when Nature reveals the passion hidden beneath the careless calm of her ordinary moods--violent spring flashing white on almond-blossom through the purple clouds; a snowy, moonlit peak, with its single star, soaring up to the passionate blue; or against the flames of sunset, an old yew-tree standing dark guardian of some fiery secret. -- John Galsworthy

One of the great blessings of my life was spending my childhood in the cradle of nature. Our home, the house still occupied by my parents, stands in a valley, mountains rising on three sides, the Cumberland River marking the fourth boundary. At one time, my ancestors, mostly Scot immigrants who had stopped for a time in northern Ireland, owned land as far as the eye could see. My grandfather had tried to keep the land intact, but in time, it has been carved up to a fraction of its size. Still, a large expanse remains, and it was my playground.

My mother's fear of snakes kept me out of the forest most of the year, but when a good snowfall came, if it had been preceded by a sufficient number of days with temperatures below freezing, my mother would let us go out and wander to our heart's content, with instructions only to be back by a certain time.

One winter expedition taught me a healthy fear of the power of nature, and the cradle that could rock rather fiercely.

After bundling up until my arms and legs were nearly immobile, I went out into a snowfall that reached my knees. Normally, I hiked an old wagon path--now used for tractors to take feed to the horses and cattle. But this time, I started up the side of the mountain, so dense there were places that were impassible. The weight of the snow pulled pine branches low and made them heavy to move aside so that I could walk between the trees. The higher I climbed, the faster my heart pounded--not just from the exertion, but from the feeling of seeing something new, something perhaps no one had seen before, even if it was just a tree or rock or some stubborn bush. It was my expedition.

I remember the almost tangible quiet of that day as I looked back to make sure I could still see the plume of smoke from our chimney. No rumble of the highway across the valley or chatter of birds or squirrels. No sign of life but my own. The only break in the icy expanse of noiseless calm was the occasional crack of a branch giving way to the snow, and my own breath.

At some point, I turned to look again at the valley below me, but found myself surrounded by a fortress of snow-laden pine boughs and bare grey trunks as straight and unwelcoming as prison bars. I turned in this direction and that, and there was no clearing. Claustrophobia took hold, and for a moment I was as frozen as the trees in my fear. I called out, but it seemed as though the snow silenced my cries as if I'd been shouting into a comforter draped across a clothes line.

Full-on panic grabbed hold, and I began to run blindly, guided only by gravity as I sought to get down the hill. I fell several times as I went, at one point nearly falling on a broken tree branch sticking up from the forest floor like a spear. Down, down I went, until I found myself propelled free from the trees and plummeting down a bare hillside not far from my house.

I remember lying on the ground for a moment. Beneath the snow, it was hard and unforgiving, but I was glad to have found it. I moved one leg, then the other, then both arms. By then, I was numb with cold, and it took me a moment to get up and make my way to the house. My mother greeted me at the door, angry and worried, but soon, I had warm clothes and hot cocoa by the fire, as was our ritual.

When I hear people say that it doesn't snow the way it used to, I take it into perspective. I don't doubt that it will snow--really snow--eventually, maybe tonight. On most days this winter, as I pass the crisp black fencerows and see the sun shining off the backs of the horses in their confines, I wonder what the snow will be like for them, and anticipate a new poetic scene to witness. Still, I think the naysayers are right, in a sense. For me, no winter will be like those I knew in the mountains. (Given my sense of direction, or lack therof, perhaps that's for the best.)

That's the thing about memories, though. They keep those moments with us and become a part of who we are.

Let it snow.