As I write, it is snowing on the farm. It is one of those quiet, nighttime snowfalls that seem to muffle all sound. There is no traffic on the slick roads, the goats and sheep are tucked away in their dry barn, and even the coyotes have taken a break from their nightly chatter. It is bliss.
Our farm is up in the hills above the West Canada Creek, high above the valley. Here, the weather can be startlingly different from whatever is going on in town.
On hot summer days, it can be a good 5-10 degrees cooler on the farm, with a lovely breeze to boot. In the winter, it means a light rain in town can turn into big, fluffy snowflakes halfway up the hill. By the time you crest the road to our farm, visitors will find a good 2-3 inches of snow and a virtual winter wonderland while the rest of the valley is still in mud season.
It is both a blessing and a curse.
The summer breezes mean we barely have any mosquitos on our hill. The cooler temps and deep woods give us and our animals an escape from the worst August heat. You just can’t beat summer in the country!
But winter here is another story entirely. Our rural road is open only seasonally, meaning we live on a dead-end road for nearly 6 months of the year. Traffic to our farm store drops precipitously, as the less adventurous amongst our customers decide to wait until spring to visit. We can go days without seeing another soul, other than the plow driver, mail carrier, and the next-door neighbor.
This seasonal isolation was very difficult for me at first. But I have grown to appreciate it, perhaps even protective of it. And when I consider parts of the country that are even more isolated, and the people that choose that lifestyle, I understand its lure.
But we have holiday parties, school concerts, and family visits this December. REAL isolation begins in January!