By JEFF LAMPE
Preparing for the first snow of the year has become hit and miss around here. Quite often, predicted storms do not materialize, so there’s a temptation to shrug off forecasts calling for white stuff.
Ahh, but when the weathermen are correct, it’s wonderful. After draining and storing hoses, raking last leaves, cleaning up after the dog, placing scrapers back in vehicles, getting ice-melt together, locating shovels and generally readying for winter, anything less than measurable precipitation is disappointing.
So Sunday was cause for celebration, except for driving the oldest to the airport at 5 a.m. That’s one aspect of snow I don’t love: the driving. Sign me up for the rest.
Watching the dog frolic and roll through suddenly soft covering.
Hearing snowplows rattle down the road.
Coming in from the cold and appreciating the warmth of the house and even the taste of coffee.
Seeing a child take the initiative to pick up a shovel without being asked.
Most of all, there’s nothing better than a pheasant hunt. Once upon a time, first snow almost always motivated me to put on the blaze orange and chase pheasants. No, there are not many around here anymore. But you can still find a rooster or two if you know where to look.
Many of my first snows were spent on a large prairie at Banner Marsh State Fish and Wildlife Area that, in good years, probably held a handful of birds. Every now and then one fell to the gun. More often than not, the dog and I would head back to the truck, wet, tired and happy. The day wasn’t so much about the birds as it was a celebration of snow.
That was my expectation last Sunday as well, though I didn’t let anyone else know that. No, to rouse the middle boy out of his warm bed required enticing tales of snow hunts of old.
The boy took the bait and, for a change, my old stories panned out. We woke two pheasants from their snowy roost in our restored French Creek prairie, tracked them and shot one that the little white dog actually flushed. Then the boy, despite being soaked and cold, did something he rarely does. He smiled wide without being asked to smile.
Contact Jeff Lampe at (309) 231-6040 or jeff@wklypost.com
