It was quiet even with the few falling snowflakes playing their part in a sea of snow. No wind, no tracks in front of us. It was if nature was shouting, “This is real, not neon signs, smartphones, spiked high heels, footballs, all reconstituted from my gifts.”
It’s a shame to break the silence with the swishing sounds of cross-country skis, but it’s cold and the winter sun waits for no one. An hour later, we’re back on the Mount Baker Highway, considering a snowshoe hike next time.
