resist, give in, be judged, gazed at critically, compared, contrasted, receive advice, sought or unsought. No one in this house, on this land, along this foothill road, had anything invested in her or what she did in her private life. An animal’s glance or stare was immediate and over with when it turned away, when it fled, there was no history in its brief appraisal—she was what she was. Her work was entirely her own. No one made anything of it, it had no consequences here, she was free. Sometime later, she would be ready then to send it back to that other world, a long way from Cape Seal Road.
T HE PATTERN she was used to—a few inches of snow, sometimes pelted into melt by rain, then a veneer of ice, a new layer of snow—was altered by a long, quiet snowfall that began late one morning and continued through the day. She watched thick flakes float dreamily past her bedroom window, a silent spectacle that ushered her into sleep. By morning, features of landscape were lost in one sinuous surface, a fresh sun glittered painfully off deep expanses of white, the pond no more than a sparse stubble of dead cattails. The dramatic shapes of driftwood were gone except for a few gnarled spikes or anonymous humps, and the snow was laced with the sharp, thin shadows of bare bush. Anna was delighted, amazed that March could revert so fast to deep winter, and, after a hurried breakfast and hot coffee at the back window, she dressed for outdoors and shouldered a backpack with sketchpad and pencils, her camera and a Thermos of tea.
She waded into powder over her knees, squinting cheerfully into the bright, silent field spreading over the pond all the way to the shore. But not far into it where the path should be, she began to tire: with each step the snow sank deeply and she had to lift her legs high and push down hard to find its depth which, sometimes uneven, unpredictable, made her stagger. What she’d anticipated as a casual walk turned into a workout, she was struggling clumsily through a drift next to the spruce grove, breathing heavily, sweating, anxious to reach the shore, but she fell headfirst before she got there, snow jamming cold up under her sleeves. The snowfield stopped abruptly in a wave-bitten bank tinged brown with sand. At least no one had witnessed her clumsy, exhausting trek. The beach was narrow now with the tide high, but the bare stones were clear walking at least. She had planned to inspect the fields, the point, see what she could find, but that would be a slog, and she’d have to stay at the shore edge. Looking back up at the house, thick snow layered on the steep roof, she realized that her car was trapped in the driveway and she was almost out of anything sensible to eat.
Over the sensuous contours of the field an animal’s tracks snaked toward the pond, the prints clean, it hadn’t been running, and she took a photo, then turned and snapped the Black Rock cliffs across the strait, Squatter’s Bluff now dusted with snow, and toward the open sea a shoal where waves broke starkly white. There was a fresh wind on her face, colder now that a grey sky had absorbed the sun. Sketching would be difficult, and the places she was after would be a tough haul, there and back, so she wandered the beach, picked up a rusty iron hinge with curlicued design, it might be off a boat. She plunged into a slow retracing of her own steps, uphill, disappointed at how the snow, so beautiful and inviting when she woke, had thwarted her. The crowns of trees were tilting—like me, she thought—meltwater dripping in their branches. How would she drive out of here if she needed? How quickly weather turned simple things difficult.
Tired, her legs stiff, she could not imagine shovelling herself out, so she called Willard. During the night the provincial plow had finished the road, he said, but he’d come round himself and clear her driveway, which he did, a blade affixed to the bumper of his truck, an old four-wheel drive.
T HE PATTERN she was used to—a few inches of snow, sometimes pelted into melt by rain, then a veneer of ice, a new layer of snow—was altered by a long, quiet snowfall that began late one morning and continued through the day. She watched thick flakes float dreamily past her bedroom window, a silent spectacle that ushered her into sleep. By morning, features of landscape were lost in one sinuous surface, a fresh sun glittered painfully off deep expanses of white, the pond no more than a sparse stubble of dead cattails. The dramatic shapes of driftwood were gone except for a few gnarled spikes or anonymous humps, and the snow was laced with the sharp, thin shadows of bare bush. Anna was delighted, amazed that March could revert so fast to deep winter, and, after a hurried breakfast and hot coffee at the back window, she dressed for outdoors and shouldered a backpack with sketchpad and pencils, her camera and a Thermos of tea.
She waded into powder over her knees, squinting cheerfully into the bright, silent field spreading over the pond all the way to the shore. But not far into it where the path should be, she began to tire: with each step the snow sank deeply and she had to lift her legs high and push down hard to find its depth which, sometimes uneven, unpredictable, made her stagger. What she’d anticipated as a casual walk turned into a workout, she was struggling clumsily through a drift next to the spruce grove, breathing heavily, sweating, anxious to reach the shore, but she fell headfirst before she got there, snow jamming cold up under her sleeves. The snowfield stopped abruptly in a wave-bitten bank tinged brown with sand. At least no one had witnessed her clumsy, exhausting trek. The beach was narrow now with the tide high, but the bare stones were clear walking at least. She had planned to inspect the fields, the point, see what she could find, but that would be a slog, and she’d have to stay at the shore edge. Looking back up at the house, thick snow layered on the steep roof, she realized that her car was trapped in the driveway and she was almost out of anything sensible to eat.
Over the sensuous contours of the field an animal’s tracks snaked toward the pond, the prints clean, it hadn’t been running, and she took a photo, then turned and snapped the Black Rock cliffs across the strait, Squatter’s Bluff now dusted with snow, and toward the open sea a shoal where waves broke starkly white. There was a fresh wind on her face, colder now that a grey sky had absorbed the sun. Sketching would be difficult, and the places she was after would be a tough haul, there and back, so she wandered the beach, picked up a rusty iron hinge with curlicued design, it might be off a boat. She plunged into a slow retracing of her own steps, uphill, disappointed at how the snow, so beautiful and inviting when she woke, had thwarted her. The crowns of trees were tilting—like me, she thought—meltwater dripping in their branches. How would she drive out of here if she needed? How quickly weather turned simple things difficult.
Tired, her legs stiff, she could not imagine shovelling herself out, so she called Willard. During the night the provincial plow had finished the road, he said, but he’d come round himself and clear her driveway, which he did, a blade affixed to the bumper of his truck, an old four-wheel drive.
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