Full Moon Nights

It was a full moon night. The light reflected off the snow all around me, the wind whipped through the tops of the trees, and our dogs hurried here and there, smelling for evidence of the cow and calf moose who had been right here only hours before. The soft, powdery snow didn’t make much sound as I walked through. It did dust the tops of my boots and was soon picked up and blown off towards Pikes Peak and the Colorado Front Range. The moose were gone. Their tracks were gone. A pile of frozen and snow-covered scat was visible only after Lily, our yellow lab, dug it out with her nose. Echo, our multi-colored mutt, had disappeared in the darkness under some nearby trees. I wasn’t worried; she made enough noise that I could imagine where she was and what she was doing.

The trail I was walking down cut down an embankment right in front of our home. I know it well, or at least I think I know it well. I see it less than I should like. On either side, a grove of at least 20 strong trees obscures any clear line of sight I might have out into the bright night. But it’s not the only obstruction. A familiar haze hangs directly over my eye, turning lunar flares into circular rainbows grounded in white. The air is cold; the silver chill detector on the porch reads -6 degrees Fahrenheit. But cold, dry air is nothing to me if not a simple reprieve. My wife and our son Arlo are already asleep in our bed, about 300 feet behind me. The blankets drip off my side of the bed, just where Dani kicked them moments before. Between her and Arlo, the bed is more furnace than anything. My thoughts are still there too, curled up just beside Arlo and an arm’s reach from Dani.

The wind brings me back outside. Back into the senses that are both diminishing and replenishing. -6 degrees, but it feels like -15, cold enough to wear a base layer under my wind pants and to zip into a few more coats than just the old oversized black puffy that hung by the door. The dogs don’t seem to mind, but temps like these aren’t good for anyone for too long. The moose are gone. I hope they are gone—nothing like startling an 800lb cow and her calf at 8:30 at night. I glance around, knowing full well that even if they are there, I’ll not be the one to see them. That’s what the dogs are there for, right?

Deep breath in, deep breath out. The ice forms instantly on my beard and mustache. Stepping forward into a frozen puddle of moonlight, I stare around, drinking in what I can. A few stars, maybe planets, are strong enough to cut through the glare thrown off by the moon and my own fog. Down valley, distantly, a coyote yaps, probably complaining about how it feels like -15. I open my eyes as wide as I can, trying to lure in the wind. I let the cold night breeze dance across the remarkably different surfaces of my eyes. The right eye freezes in place. I feel it lock on the back of my eyelid, not wanting to give a millimeter. A sensation like a suction cup being pulled straight up from its secure surface makes me clap my gloved hand to the eye. False alarm though, the eye is still there; it had just shifted a bit. A thing they never tell you about glass eyes before you get one is that they can freeze to your eyelid if it’s cold enough. At least it’s not my tongue on a frozen flagpole. 

My left eye, on the other hand, seems to exhale. The haze that had been plaguing me for most of the day seemed to evaporate; it did evaporate. The dry cold of the night air had a desiccating effect on the swollen cornea of my one limping eye, polishing my vague and foggy vision to a clear and sharp edge. Almost perfect. The rainbow ripples still paraded around the moon, but I can’t help but enjoy those.

Another deep breath. The dogs sprint by me, headed down the valley, chasing whatever ghosts call this place home. Gratitude overwhelms me, and now there is ice on my lashes as well as in my beard. Not having answers to life’s mysteries is tough. Not knowing if I’ll retain the limited sight I’ve fought for the last seven months to keep is also tough. But it pales in comparison to the four planets—they must be planets—that shine overhead. No floodlight on earth can do justice to this landscape like a full moon and deep drifted snow. The dogs are illuminated now, clear shadows for the moment, dancing away by the quiet road, but it wasn’t ghosts that led them there. I see quite plainly now the exit trough carved by the moose as they made their way to some unknown thicket. A quick, sharp whistle and the two move back towards me, tails raised proudly.

I turn and look up the valley. I can see the track I skinned into the perimeter of the clearing, painstakingly shaping the private and scenic cross-country ski track I’d enjoy with Arlo once the temperature decided to go back above 10 degrees. Worn in a chest harness, he’s the warmest layer I’ve ever owned. The dogs’ noses press against my pants and dangling hands to let me know they are back. I spin on the spot. Our home, shrouded in shadows, winks from behind the cluster of trees nearest me. The lights are all off, but it still looks warm. I know it is. My bed is warmer still. The tips of my fingers have started to tingle and I seem to be having a hard time getting my cheeks to cooperate in the well-choreographed smile I tried to summon while thinking about retiring for the night.

Time to head back inside. I’ll trade the cold for warmth, my solitude for cozy snuggles, and the clarity in my vision for a dull fog. I’ll come back out tomorrow, during the day, maybe wearing Arlo and holding Dani’s hand. I’ll come back out tomorrow and see if I can get my vision to clear up for a bit. If it does, I know just how I’ll spend it. I’ll share smiles with Dani and maybe a not-so-frozen tear of gratitude since right now my vision is still here. I’ll strap Arlo to my chest don the oversized puffy jacket hanging from a hook beside the door, and zip Arlo into it with me. I’ll step into my skis and glide down the embankment in front of our home, past stands of thick trees, and out into the clearing drenched by the cold light of a January sun. The dogs will run, one in front and one behind, a push and a pull. A pulse on our ski track. Like the snow carried towards distant peaks, I know this won’t last. The snow will melt. Arlo will grow up and he won’t always fit in his chest harness. My skis will chip and my poles will crack. My vision may fail. I might not see other full moon nights, but I will be here, out in the cold, wearing old jackets, surrounded by those I love, whistling for the dogs I always had a hard time seeing anyway.