The forest slowly brightens. My ski tips pass the last few firs. Blue, grey, and green tones give way to the yellow-red hues of late afternoon. A progressively opening, flat plain of pillowy snow extends out in my direction of travel. Scattered, leaf-bare grey sticks of old trees punctuate the expanse as I pause to gaze north and west. To my far left, the pillowy snow smooths into the perfect flat of a frozen lake. Beyond, steep-sloped ridges of dense evergreen ring the lake, forming a small bowl. The bulky presence of a minor mountain dominates the scene. The afternoon clouds sliding around the mountain, and the avalanche debris on its sides provide a sense of scale. My fugue of fatigue, thirst, and a plodding trek fade into an arousal of realizing this minor, but long-held goal. I am about to immerse into a wintery Goat Marsh. I am about to spend another night in the Land.

A coyote calls a caution to a companion across the marsh. The chirping series of barks catches me by surprise. Far to my right the companion replies with a short yipping that rises out of the forest somewhere around Cold Spring Creek. I fidget my weight between skis, pausing in surprise at this activity in the snow-bound marsh. The coyote calls again, and I ski just a bit further on, watching the distant snow-bound tree line for movement. He appears as a trotting dot, moving with effort across frozen Goat Lake towards his friend at Cold Spring. With renewed energy I pick up a playful kick-glide towards the islands, mindful that the day is slipping towards sunset. I smile at the encounter, at the expansive scene, and at the opportunity to experience what has been happening here all winter long.

An hour after the coyotes, and I am content in a big puffy parka. I sip warm water, sitting on a ski-stomped sleeping platform slowly solidifying, listening to the subtle roar of my white-gas stove dutifully extracting water from snow. Through a notch in Goat Mountain’s southern ridge, occasional sun breaks tease at a pleasant sunset. The persistent cloud layer hides the summits of Goat and St. Helens. Instead, my eyes study Monitor Rock, the Twin Domes, and Goat’s avalanche chutes. A pair of ducks flap and quack their way high over the marsh, heading towards Blue Lake. I puzzle at the ducks for nearly as long as I pondered my camera position. I scan my frozen surroundings, wondering what the ducks hope to find.

Night falls, drawing a conclusion to a mediocre series of photos. I sit content in my puffy jacket on my air mattress, watching the overcast slowly break up to reveal patches of stars and a full, round moon. The sky slowly clears throughout the night, save for a persistent wad of clouds that hang unmoving along Goat’s southeastern face. The texture and stagnation of the wad remind me of the classic mountaintop lenticular, and I wonder if Goat might produce its own slight microclime.

Morning arrives warm and clear. In the east, yellow twilight silhouettes Monitor Rock and the summer climbing route on Mt. St. Helens. To the west, golden dawn touches Goat Mountain’s summit, progressively transforming the cool, blue-green forests into an inviting red warmth as it descends. I turn back and forth, watching both the distant dawning and its nearby effects. A line of light drifts silently across the frozen lake. The light finally reaches my camp. The day has officially begun.

Large puffs of white cloud spill over St. Helens’ crater rim and drift south. The regularity of the puffs holds my attention. I am intrigued at how out of the chaotic combination of wind gradient, buoyancy, and dew point emerges such a stable, repeating pattern. Seconds tick by, and I can feel the awareness coming on. Mentally absorbing details, my unconscious abducts them into the usual realization of patterns. More seconds tick by, and my adductive process runs its course. Returning to the present, I gaze again at the clouds and mountain and sky, pondering the pattern they represent.

I smile, at the clouds’ example of chaos, emergence, and self-ordered complexity. I smile, as always, at the freedom of this new perspective; this release of reductionism and its downward-digging epistemology of parsing. I smile at this freedom to look up, to see life as a harmonic of patterns built on patterns, to find scientific legitimacy for the sum to be greater than the parts, to look with expectancy down the arrow of time. I smile at this moment in time, that emerges out of snow and mountains and morning. I smile, looking forward to learning, to the joy of my small mind catching up to what other minds have said. I smile at the dawning, as the sun reaches my face, and I stuff my pack, and click into my skis. I smile at the day, as I ski away from camp, anxious to find where the ducks came from.

The lake is flat. Smooth, simple kicks easily propel me on long glides over perfectly crusted snow. The fish scales of the skis’ kick zones bite without fail. On occasion, with good balance, I glide for seconds. Behind me, the skis barely disturb the snow. I cross the coyote’s tracks, as I make my way to the northern edge of the main lake. At the far tree line, a shallow trough opens into a short rivulet of water. A trail of webbed prints waddle down to the water. I look at this scant puddle and wonder again at what the ducks found, imagining the distance from here to Merrill, Yale, and Swift. I suppose they, too, were looking to the future, the spring, imagining what could be.

At the southern end of the lakes I cross the old tracks of my arrival yesterday, completing the circuit. I pause and absorb once more, reluctant to call an end to this moment on the marsh. I smile, and turn my back on sun, mountain, and snow. I push my tips again into the trees. Immediately, forest shadow changes the mood, already converting the moment into a memory. I am ready for the effort of the journey home. I am ready for what is in store.