Sam Cook column: A shoveler's ruminations after a January snowfall

A couple inches of snow have fallen overnight. He had seen that when he let the dog out earlier, the fresh white frosting on the porch railings. He had been happy to see the snow. Good for the trails.

When it comes to moving snow, Shoveling Man is predictable. First, the little back porch, then down the sidewalk and around to the front porch. Then on around to the driveway. The same way nearly every time. He knows this says something about him, but he isn't sure he wants to know what it is.

Shoveling Man thinks this is the perfect snow. Easy to scoop and throw in a single motion. No heavy lifting. Plus, there's the strange satisfaction of seeing the repeating geometric pattern his shovel strokes leave in his wake. He will make quick work of this.

Daylight comes reluctantly as Shoveling Man goes about his work. The day seems to emerge through a gauze, with no sharp edges on the sleeping spruces and the barren maples.

The yellow dog follows Shoveling Man up and down the driveway. She wonders why he has forgotten to feed her. Every time he turns and heads back to start another row closer to the house, the yellow dog begins prancing and spinning. Yes, she thinks: Shoveling Man has remembered. He will go inside the back porch now and scoop me kibbles from heaven while I sit and wait and drool.

But, no. Look at him, she thinks. He just came back to start another row of shoveling. More prancing. More waiting.

Shoveling Man usually does not resent his shoveling task. Not unless the snow is heavy and dense and wants to cling to his shovel. When that happens, he fires up his snowblower for the bulk of the snow-clearing. People talk about how important it is to be grateful, Shoveling Man thinks. He is grateful for his 24-inch, two-stage Ariens. He will probably even use it to finish up this morning, on the long stretch of his driveway down to the street.

But now he is happy to be shoveling, and for the satisfying little whoompf of each shovelful landing in the gray beyond. Shoveling Man thinks sometimes of the millions of people in the world who never have to shovel. He and his wife have made this choice, to live in the North, to deal with snow for five or six months a year. That doesn't bother him. Every latitude comes with its own set of demands. Some places, they have to pick up those pesky palm fronds that fall in the yard. Other places, you have to check for scorpions before you put on your shoes. On the oceanfront, salt air corrodes metal. He will take the snow.

Shoveling Man is almost finished with the upper drive now. He stops to look at his work, at the asphalt he has unveiled. He will fire up the snowblower and finish later, when he's less likely to disturb the neighbors.

But now it's time to feed the yellow dog. He replaces the shovel in its snow sheath by the porch. The dog follows him inside. She sits in quivering anticipation. One clear strand of drool hangs from her left jowl. Shoveling Man scoops her food and places the bowl on the floor. He gives her the OK. Ravenous inhalations ensue.

All is right in the world.

SAM COOK is a Duluth News Tribune columnist and outdoors writer. Reach him at (218) 723-5332 or scook@duluthnews.com. Find his Facebook page at facebook.com/SamCookOutdoors or his blog at samcook.areavoices.com.