The aspens are lanky beauties as always, with their heads in a continual rush towards blond this time of the year.

Some are embarrassed to still be green, with the onset of snow though it will only cap the mountain tops for a few days before melting away and flowing down the hillsides in creeks that will join rivers that will meet the sea.

All things seem to wear the first, fine dust of crystals like crowns. Royal when caught in their natural state. Kings and queens of the forest crunch underfoot as I carry myself over the hill crest into the spruces (so serious and quiet with their snow loads).

The deer, somewhere, behind that tree over there, raise their small black noses from the forage and wonder why I walk on two legs instead of four.

And a long line of ladies wave me on.

Farley, wet with effort and snow spray from low branches, turns his face into the wind to catch scent as it flings itself off a handful of paunchy ruffed grouse.

He steps forward, with sureness, locating the scent. His stubby tail is the only indicator of how hard his heart is beating with excitement. And then he locks up, his body tense, not a muscle moving. I lean into my steps and listen to the long draughts of air he sucks in through his nose, that scent must be delicious. He drinks it like a thirsty man. “Right there,” his body says. He’s waiting for Robert who will walk ahead, through the brush, flush the bird and shoot it from the sky. Farley will hold staunch until he is given the command to fetch.

And then he brings home the bacon.

And holds it in his mouth until we reach down and command him to drop it, still warm, into our hands.

RW inspects the harvest and pops it in his bag. Farley hears the words, “Get on.” And he takes to the forest like his heels wear wings, to do it all again. For the love of birds. For the love of us.

In the meanwhile, my feet and hands are very cold. My cheeks feel wind kissed because it’s blowing cold up in the mountains, out of the shelter of the valley. In the distance, the trees have faded into old age, and the meadows are white lace on the edge of sundown.

But even in all this white, there’s so much color to behold and my heart is bold with RW nearby. I hear him call out commands to our dog as I stop to inspect nature.

Before long, it’s time to drive down the mountains, to our warm little home and our toasty little dinner plans. We load the dog, hop in the cab, turn on the heat and coast down the hills into town.

We reach home and warm up with a fresh batch of potato soup, toasted homemade bread, lavender tea and a nip of port.

1 tbsp butter

1 cup celery, chopped

1 1/2 cups green onions (white part and 2 inches of green)

4 cups potatoes (peeled and diced)

1 cup carrot (chopped)

3/4 tsp dried thyme

1/4 tsp black pepper (I usually do a full tsp)

1 tsp dried dill

1/2 tsp salt (skip this if you aren’t using a low sodium chicken broth)

4 cups chicken or veggie broth (best if you make this yourself)

1 cup buttermilk

Melt butter in a large pot, add onions and celery. Cook and stir for 5 minutes or until veggies begin to soften. Add broth, potatoes, carrots, thyme, salt and pepper. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat to medium low, cover and simmer for 20 minutes. Working in batches, transfer food to a blender and puree until smooth. Return to pot, stir in buttermilk and dill. Simmer for a few more minutes.

Serve with fresh baked bread or buttermilk biscuits. If you find the soup to be hothothot, cool it off with an extra drizzle of buttermilk.