An Ode to Winter Holidays at Manitoba

The temperature hovered in the low double digits—and would soon begin to sink, probably dipping into negative numbers, once the day had passed for good. Leaning on the frosty rail of the bridge over Mills Creek below Manitoba Cabin, I could hear the muffled rush of the creek beneath its thick sheath of snow-covered ice. Around me the woods already stood silent in the deepening cold of the coming night. Two miles up the creek to the southeast, loomed the flank of Raven Ridge. Across its broad, snow- and spruce-patched face the cold orange of alpenglow darkened into purple mist of evening. And so the shortest day of the year turned toward night.

Some skiers had already schussed down from a day pf carving the broad west face of Manitoba Mountain. The more persistent skiers would opt for one last run before sliding down through the darkness. An hour later or so a couple of us brought some wood into the main cabin we could see the headlights of  these last skiers weaving along the trail as they approached. Their satisfied voices rang through the woods.

Before long the cooking and eating area bustled with people—some four or five families and groups of various sizes. Before long the plates of dinners finished and half-finished, mugs of beer, glasses of wine, and tumblers of stronger spirits covered the tables. A pair of dogs wandered hopefully beneath the tables snuffing for scraps. Back in one corner of the benches a quartet of people played cards, Nearer to the main table where the serving plates vied for space a boy and girl eyed a plate of cupcakes enviously. Someone had brought a guitar and sang to a few listeners in particular and all of us in general. I half-listened to him sing some Beatles song as I sat nursing a coffee mug of wine and engaging in some talk about the skiing that day up on Manitoba Mountain and biking on the nearby trails and old roads. And all the air hung thick with wet warmth of melting snow, cooking food, and clothes drying above the hissing stove.