It’s hard to believe, but December is here, just like that (imagine snapping fingers). A large proportion of our readers come from parts of the world which don’t get snow, or if they do, it’s rare. So, I thought you folks would enjoy taking a hike in yesterday’s light snowfall. It’s above freezing, so no need to worry about ice underfoot. The snow isn’t deep, so no need for snowshoes, either. The River’s running well within the banks, but the bedrock is very slick, and it’s not worth risking a broken bone to venture closer to the water. And though the day is a sooty leaden gray, that doesn’t mean there aren’t some good photos waiting to be captured. We’ll be back to bicycling on Thursday, but for now, let’s head out on two feet and meet winter head-on.

The only sounds are the faint hiss of snow falling and the distant masculine grumble of The River cascading over the stepped falls. A fallen tree, long since weathered and smoothed by years of flowing water and blowing wind, is barren. No ducks take their ease on the log, and no bright flowers decorate the steep banks.

 

 
Further downstream, the slick bedrock banks don’t welcome exploration.

 

Snow isn’t falling heavily, but it softens the distant hillside on the other side of the main channel, hidden by the foreground rise.

 

 
The trail is clearly visible through the snow-covered trees.

 

 
Away from the river, a clearing is thick with brambles bent double by the weight of even a small amount of snow.

 

 
Heading back to the trailhead on an access road, the roadside weeds are heavy with snow, too.

 

 
Falling snow leaves light traces against a subdued background.

 

 
The individual snowflakes are spiky end elongate, like ice shavings or shredded coconut.

 

 
The bleak winter landscape is reflected in a pool of a small stream.

 

 
Out of the parting layers of clouds comes flock after flock of migrating geese. I counted about 250 geese in this flock:

 

 
The geese aren’t hindered by a snow-encrusted chain-link fence entwined by weeds and brambles.

 

 
A titmouse isn’t bothered by the snow, either.

 

 
The storm, though minor, is a reminder of more to come, but by sunset it was parting, leaving windows in the cloud bank and allowing blue sky to peek through. Tomorrow’s another day!

 

 
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