July 1

There is a glare of white emanating upwards from the snow, reflecting light in all directions, burning all exposed skin up the sleeves of my shirt, the legs of my shorts. There are suncups, deep trenches of ice, grooves and depressions repeating endlessly for acres impossible to take a complete stride. There are rocks that radiate heat, forming haloes in the snow. Buried rocks form hidden caverns that crash down when stepped upon leaving you up to the hips in snow. There are streams that run beneath the snow, carving out subterranean tunnels and you can hear the gargle of moving water beneath the crust of ice. Exposed streams, you must find a snow bridge and hope it doesnt collapse as you tip-toe across it or you just walk right through the stream. There is a lack of oxygen and the lungs thunder inside chest, beating against the thin layer of atmoshphere. There is sweat staining the eyes. There is the whiplash dance, like a marienette, along the grooves of snow. In the morning, there are icefields. In the evening, there are plains of softened slush. During the night, the world freezes again.