The snow keeps piling in, so I set out for the shelter this morning to see just how much more it might have changed. I was prepared to spend some time sculpting the snow. Or, to be more accurate, I wasn't that prepared, because I could only find one glove.
The journey was exhausting because the snow is so light and uncompacted. It had drifted a little, filling the hollows and flattening the crests. Without a stick, I was unsure how deep I would plunge with every step. Sometimes it was around shin-deep, mostly knee-deep, but often waist-deep. On two occasions I went as far as my armpits. That was frightening, especially close to the gill where I had no way of judging where land stopped and water started. I couldn't afford to twist my ankle or fall awkwardly; no-one knew where I was. I became supremely cautious and watchful of every move. At one point I stamped some steps down a steep side, looked across the gill and jumped with both feet landing parallel, unsure whether to brace or relax into the snow. As it happened, the spot I had chosen to land on was relatively firm, the snow being no deeper than knee-height.