Walking the Spit in Winter
We walked out of the forest and down the lee side of the spit. The water was the same dense gray as the sky, the islands dark and snow dusted, disappearing into fog where sky and water merged. Two skiffs out in the bay passed close enough for conversation, but from shore we could hear nothing but the wind and gulls. The beach’s contours had changed since the last time I’d walked this way at low tide. The point, when we reached it, was flat and broad where before had been a sharp, current-rippled ridge of sand and pebble.
Out of the land’s shelter the wind took us hard. I balled my hands into fists in my pockets as I looked out over the channel, the water an eerie, pale green and frothing white. Birds flocked this shore, the gulls swooping up to drop shells onto the rocks, the ducks crowding the sandy flats, facing into the surf. They lifted up before us, resettling as soon as we’d passed.
The wind was picking up, cutting cold through my heavy coat and hat, icing my fingers, stiffening my face. The waves had thrown up new driftwood above the tide line and scattered shells that showed secret purple and mother of pearl green against the dark sand. Down the beach, something large and white stood at the edge of the driftwood. We followed the footsteps of other curious walkers to investigate. The shape sharpened into a padlocked sail chest, a single tie line hanging down its side. In the summer the beach is littered with plastic, but the winter empties the sea of casual boaters and their trash. The chest was the was the only jetsam we found on that whole wild shore.
Back at the forest’s edge we turned away from the wind and towards an unexpected piece of abstract art: the wind had painted snow into icy, white racing stripes up the windward side of each exposed tree. Glancing back, I found the forest behind us was dark. Before us, the bold white stripes shone and swayed.
A few paces into the trees and the quiet closed around us. The air was still. I took my hands out of my pockets and flexed my fingers. High above, the treetops twisted, shaking down snow flurries. Above the trees, a raven played the storm, wing dipping and rolling, skimming the air, before swinging around in a broad arc to ride down the wind and out of sight.
Owner | Baker
THIS WEEK's WEDNESDAY BREAD
Order by Sunday night to pick up Wednesday, Feb 13
Red & White
Baker's Choice: Tinned Rye with Raisins & Walnuts - inspired by the rugbrod so many of you loved a few weeks back. 100% Whatcom grown (except for the salt). Happy Valentines!
NEXT WEEK's WEDNESDAY BREAD
Order this week for pickup Wednesday, Feb 20
Red & White
Baker's Choice: Sour Ring Bread - the daily bread of Finland
WINTER BREAD SUBSCRIPTION
4 weeks left!
RED & WHITE subscription
MOUNTAIN RYE subscription
BAKER's CHOICE subscription: a new rye every week
Order ONLINE and pickup on Wednesdays from:
Downtown: Cafe Velo, 120 Prospect, 9am - 7pm
Fairhaven: Shirlee Bird Cafe, 1200 Harris, 7:30am - 5pm
Birchwood: the front step, 8am - 8pm
Comments are closed.
All Bakery Dreaming Bicycles Books And Other Stories Bread Without Metaphor Building A Bakery Business Values Changing Seasons Childhood Community Endings Harvest Forage Glean Home Kitchen Sink Philosophy Learning / Teaching Magic And Imagination Opinion Practicalities Starting With The Soil The Body The Commissary The Garden The Sky The World Outside Time Travel Wonder