We’ve seen fluffy snow, the kind you can shovel for hours without feeling (too) put out. The sticky snow that clings to snowballs and snowmen. The piled on snow, foot upon foot, with a layer of ice on top, that you sink through but your daughter doesn’t. And the kind of snow that has dwindled in the recent thaw, a mess of slushiness and compacted hardness.
I had to trudge through that kind of snow today to the apiary. After my last inspection I forgot to put the big rock on top of the hive, and we’ve been having gusts up to 40 mph. So out I went, on the snow. A couple of steps slip on the rock hard ice. Your next step shaves a foot of your height as you suddenly punch through. Not having suspected that, you are already moving to take another step, and your shin hits the sudden wall of ice, your ankle twists in the hole.
Pulling back you lose your balance and start windmilling your arms and cry out. Down you go, on your backside, s’il vous plait. This creates a tight-fitting bucket chair, from which you can only extricate yourself by rolling over onto your side and getting up on your knees.
Luckily only DH witnessed the shenanigans. I forgive him his chuckle.
This is my least favorite snow.