|Running Through Hills of Snow|
|King of the Hill|
|Like Race Cars|
|Puffing on His Pipe|
With a serious case of cabin fever, we rushed the dogs up the Pack River so they could run to the hills. The Upper Pack River Road has been inaccessible to us since mid-December. The melt has opened up the road and away we drive.
White, crusty hills of piled snow encircle the snowmobile landing area. That was as far as we could navigate (without a snowmobile of our own). The entire drive up the road, Grendel nose-whistles; he's that excited. He leaps out the opened door into rivulets of running water. The road is packed sand, still frozen enough not to be muddy...yet.
Grendel and Bobo dash up and down the hills; hills of snow, slopes of snow-crusted rocks. The Pack River rushes in our ears but too much snow prevents us from getting a closer look. Like race-cars, the two dogs zoom around the open area where snowmobilers can turn around trucks with toy-haulers. They kick up icy water and fine grains of quartz sand.
Todd pulls out his pipe and blows puffs of smoke, watching the dogs. I watch him. The sun shines warmly on all of us and it satisfies our need to get out of the house, to breath in the sharp scent of pines and watch dogs run to the hills.