First Snow

Written on September 24, 2012.

Snow has fallen in Uliastai—the first of the season. It made its introduction first as a light rain that came over the quiet mountains and hills, leaving mist in its wake to half-obscure peaks and rocky slopes. The precipitation was gentle enough for me to venture outdoors, making the trek to my site-mates’ (Bianca and Bill’s) apartment with my mini mew tucked safely and warmly into my down coat.

My site-mates here in Uliastai (Bianca, Bill, and Bryan) and I had planned an exploration of one of Uliastai’s farther districts, Dinj, but the late September shower curtailed our plans, and we contented ourselves to stay in to cook and work on a project recording English textbook audio tracks.

As the drizzly day draped into the afternoon, the rain turned to sleet and finally to snow, and we watched from the third-story apartment window as flakes of white settled over the city.

The power has become bewilderingly intermittent. Bianca tracks the outages on the calendar taped to her apartment wall, but none of us can yet find a pattern. On our first snow day, it flickered off at 8 and came back on around 10:15, only to go down about an hour later. Often the power companies at least give homes the evening so families can make dinner, but power at the apartment flicked out at 7:26pm—just in time to leave a home-made pizza half-baked in the oven.

This morning, I awoke to cold. I will be glad when the heat comes on in my home and the radiators can keep the temperature a bit warmer—hopefully in early to mid-October. There is snow over the grass. At first, it looks like frost, but then you see a flake or two drift down from the cloudy-gray sky and remember that the air is too dry here to leave morning frost. It is snow that patches the grounds and whitens the nearby mountains.

Snow transforms landscapes. I wonder how Mongolian snow will transform mine. I wonder how I have changed and will change as winter deepens. It is not just Mongolia’s physical environment that forces me to grow and adapt, but also the cultural and social environment that makes this such a strange and challenging country to navigate.

I wonder if the tall mountains around me will rumble new barriers into me. I wonder if the shifting streams will reflect new fluidity into my character. When electrical fluctuations and the slow tilting of the earth bring unaccustomed darkness into my inner landscape, I wonder if I will find a way to generate light and warmth to fight back the shadows.

As I look out at the mountains, peaceful and sleepy under a thin blanket of slow, and see the black birds spiraling in the chill air, and see the small finches chirping gleefully on the school fences, I remember that life is a journey, and all landscapes change with the seasons--and are made for travel.