My name is Henny and I am looking across a sea of grey and white. I see no other color, only the cold white grit of snow that stings like desert. I have never seen a desert. Now I see only white swirling and twisting on waves of wind against the flat grey world. Drifts begin to billow and twist out shapes in the dusky shadows. I see Buffalo; he looks at me with lazy eyes; then swirls away onto the last of the setting sun. I turn back toward our shelter when falling snow begins to drop, fat clumps of white. I look up and new formed flakes fall onto my face making me smile. I walk toward our tent and as the wind picks up I realize I have never seen a forest either. I pull back the flap and poke my head inside.
I enter, ducking low, pulling the flap tight against the wind. I look at our dogs on one side of the fire and my mate, John on the other sitting on our fur lined bed. I ask if he checked the dogs paws. He says yes and the rough ice had caused their foot pads to crack. He greased them and wrapped them for the night. I pull at the fasteners on my parka as John points to the tea he prepared and pats the bedding beside him. I take off the last of my outside gear and sigh as I lean into him wrapping my hands around the hot cup. He asks about my walk and worries that the storm might get worse before morning. I am not concerned I tell him; we are warm in our tent, tucked into a big drift, there is enough wood close at hand and we have food for a long stay. Our footwear too is in need of repair, the storm would provide time to mend ourselves and our gear. We have been travelling this sea of white for a full moon. I am tired.
The year is 1889