It seems ironic, now, that we headed for an overnight snow break into the Catskills. Wet snow had fallen on Friday night and the trees along the way were beautiful with it, temperatures hovering just under freezing.
Nobody knew anything about a Monday blizzard, on Saturday.
I love road pictures. Mine, other people's. Snapped as it was, as it disappears.
We don't talk much when we're driving.
There was barely any traffic, on the way out.
Time for a coffee break. With a nip of cognac.
And then back to the snow.
The character of trees is very strong in the winter.
The evergreens come alive.
We saw no deer.
We saw many, many icicles.
We stopped for lunch beside New York City's water supply. Or ice supply.
Quick tomato soup from a thermos.
With sourdough sandwiches.
And then we were in Woodstock, at the Inn on the Millstream. We've stayed here before with my mom, in the fall. I love it. Simple, and exactly what we needed. I slept better than I have in six Harlem weeks. No thumps in the night, no phantom bumps in the basement at 3am. No drilling in the walls, no hammering during dinner, no slammed doors. Smooth, white silence. The roses were waiting, from the lovely Frenchman. It was our anniversary.
The sun was out the next morning and after a walk to the stream (below), we ate a smoked salmon and bagel breakfast (only the coffee could be improved) and made friends with the resident small, friendly black lady-cat.
And then we set off again to one of our favourite places.
Under the sun, snow was melting.
But in the narrow valley we'd visited in every other season but this, the mountains kept the slopes frozen.
Icicles six, ten feet long.
This is the road where coltsfoot blooms in April.
Our Zipcar, resting from zipping.
A few falls ago we picnicked at this table with my mom. Even then, under the yellow leaves, we froze.
The rock where we picnicked last summer.
This prettiest of rivers, last seen under green leaves.
In spring trout lilies, winter cress and false hellebore come up beside the water. Yellow violets and trillium bloom on the slopes.
Time to go home, under a blue sky.
And a snowless George Washington Bridge.
Not snowless for long. They say.