Читать книгу Shaped by Snow. Defending the Future of Winter онлайн

73 страница из 81

We’d already stopped a few times during the winding drive, my grandpa pushing his bent body out of the seat each time so he could point out certain features in the landscape and answer any questions that formed in my mind as I scanned the scenery. If my constant flow of queries about everything in sight annoyed him, he didn’t show it.

We summited a crest that would allow us a view into Rock Canyon and the car rumbled to a stop, the tires kicking up dust on a road dried out by the summer. The smell of dirt and earthy rot of fallen leaves wafted through the air as our boots ground the gravel beneath them. The trees seemed to breathe in relief at the upcoming promise of cooler times, the light breezes pulling whispers from their canopies. With the effort of someone experiencing sciatic pain, my grandpa began ambling toward what looked to be the rocky exposure of a little cliff or ridgeline, about fifty feet down a primitive trail.

Pausing, he turned to my grandma and, for the second time that day, advised in his slow voice, “Ah, Maxine, you better stay by the car.” And for the second time that day, she responded by moving forward to take his hand and walk beside him.