Blue Hour

 

The late afternoon sun gilds the forest floor in a blanket of gold, and towering maples cast rows of shadowed stripes on the snow. Following my family, I trudge along the icy trail. We are 10 rosy cheeks, 10 clinking ice cleats, and five sniffling noses in the cold, still air.

Through a tidy stand of pine trees.

Across a wooden footbridge that spans a creek coated in a thin layer of ice.

Past the olive moss peeking through the snow on a rocky outcrop.

After an hour of hiking, “Mommy, what animal made these tracks?” and “Mommy, watch how fast I can climb this rock!” give way to “Mommy, I’m hungry!” and “Mommy, my toes are cold.” The afternoon sun has also given way to longer shadows and an ombré sky. So I entice my daughters along with the promise of a warm car and a hot dinner, and I try to draw them in to the magic of these minutes before dark.

But although a winter hike can be magical, we are all ready for this one to be over. When we reach the next clearing, I trade my husband the 35 pound four year old I hoisted onto my back a few hundred metres ago for my backpack, and I sift through the snacks to find our trail map.

For the past kilometre, I’ve been anticipating every bend might be the one that will (finally) bring us back around the other side of this loop to the rural highway where our car is parked. But, scrutinizing the map in the waning daylight, I can see now that I’ve miscalculated. Instead of three kilometres round trip, my finger traces a winding trail that covers nearly twice that distance. We have to turn back.

On its own, a hike in the dark doesn’t send me into a panic. One of my favourite times of day in the forest is the sliver of minutes before dark, I welcome the lengthening shadows, and I rarely turn down an evening hike.

But when I say I like being in the forest in the dark, what I really mean is I like being in the forest in the dark with three headlamp-clad kids bobbing along in front of me. So it isn’t until I realize our headlamps aren’t in our backpacks that I feel a twitch of concern. 

There’s no question about our next step now. We turn around and trudge forward (and backward), retracing our steps. My unease builds and the sun sets, but I hide the edge in my voice behind my repeating promises of warm cars and hot dinners. I know I will not add this hike to the list as one of my favourites this year, but I have no doubt we’ll make it. We always make it.

Eventually we emerge from the dark patch of trees at the trailhead, scale the ditch that leads to the highway, and unlock the car doors. I take a final look back at the two cedars that frame the entrance to the trail and spotlight the darkness we just survived. The world on this side of dark has a distinct sapphire glow.

Blue hour. Twilight. Semidarkness. A reaction in the ozone layer that materializes when the sun is just below the horizon. The hour of the first star. The liminal space between light and darkness. The minutes that straddle the daily sway between day and night.

That February afternoon, I hustled kids to the car and admired the sky, but I’d never noticed the blueness before, and I didn’t know I could name it. Now, I always notice these minutes of blue, whether from the trail or wrist deep in soapy water staring out my kitchen window.

The slide into blue hour is imperceptible at first. You’re locking the car door in the sunlight and checking everyone has two mittens and setting off down the trail. You’re fielding questions about snacks and adjusting loose ice cleats and recalculating the route. Then your muscles are aching under the weight of your tired child, and you’re lamenting the forgotten headlamps. You’re putting on a smile and promising chicken fingers and fries. You’re worried. You’re tired. And then you’re making it back, and you’re relieved even though you know darkness is inevitable.

You’re celebrating health all while knowing that sickness is just around the corner. You’re enjoying rest and seeing exhaustion on the horizon. You’re facing despair but remembering hope. You’re seeing growth and navigating loss all in one. You’re turning back and moving forward. You’re celebrating an accomplishment and weighed down by the latest challenge. You’re somehow both in between and never in between.

Life is sometimes black and white and light and dark, but it’s mostly blue I think, as I rinse another dish in view of a muddy, sapphire backyard that straddles day and night and winter and spring.

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This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Sway."