My walk through the park this afternoon was a study in shades of bluish-white. Between the frost on the trees, an artifact of this morning’s ice fog, and the falling flakes of snow, and the cloudy sky, everything was the almost same colour. A monochromatic landscape. Without a blue sky to set it off, the frost tended to recede into the background, and my attempts at photography were unsuccessful.

I thought about yesterday’s classes as I crunched through the snow. They were a mixed bag. The in-person class went well, although I was nervous–it’s my first time teaching the course and the subject matter isn’t my expertise–and made a couple of mistakes. I was able to correct them, but I’d rather have been more confident, and more competent. The remote class, though, was a gong show. You would think that after three years of remote learning, the students would have figured out Zoom by now, but that is not the case. And, since almost none of the students could be bothered to turn on their cameras, I found myself teaching rows of black squares bearing unfamiliar names–an incredibly alienating experience, one I found almost unbearable. I asked the class to turn their cameras on, but few did. I hope the rest of the semester isn’t the same as that first meeting.

I asked the class why they decided to enrol in a remote section of the course. Some had good reasons: they live outside the city and find commuting for hours in winter weather to be too much. Fair enough. But others said they were tired of being around other people. I’m still wondering what that answer might mean. Is remote learning encouraging a new form of social withdrawal?

Walking home after work was less monochromatic: the white snow and frost, lit by streetlights and the nearly full moon, contrasted against the dark sky and the shadows. No birds, but jackrabbits everywhere, feeding in the quiet. I was tired, taking slow steps, as if I’d walked all day, from some village somewhere to another, across a range of hills. But no, just a flat plod across the park, both ways, and I’m beat.

This morning’s walk was all about frost: every twig, every branch, every marcescent leaf or ash samara was outlined in white. Close up, it was beautiful. Far away, magnificent. I took a few pictures, but the light wind froze my fingers, and I decided to enjoy the spectacle without documenting it.

While I trudged along, I thought about today’s classes: two three-hour lectures, courses I’ve never taught before. The first class is all about first impressions; if I’m not quite on my game, if my body language or tone of voice doesn’t send the right message, the results will cling to me for the rest of the semester. A lot is at stake.

I thought that the southeast breeze might knock down the frost, but as I got closer to the university, I realized that it was bringing an ice fog with it. That fog was recoating whatever the wind blew off. It was also nipping at my nose and cheeks. I was happy to get to the campus and open the front door of the building where my office is. Now, after my lunchtime apple, I have to get ready to perform. Wish me luck.

The theme of this morning’s walk was the cold. Not because of the weather, though, but because I misheard the forecast on the radio this morning. It might be minus 2 somewhere in the province today, but not here, as I discovered when it was too late to turn back and trade my gloves for heavy mittens and put on long underwear. I typically dress lightly, anyway, since walking generates heat, and heat generates perspiration, and I don’t like being soaking wet when I arrive at work, but today it took quite a while–at least a half hour–before I started to feel comfortable. Lesson learned: check the current temperature on my phone before setting out.

We walked through the park, again, since it’s the most direct route to our offices at the university. Psychogeographers would sniff at walking through the park; they prefer walking in places where walking is not encouraged, where one can explore the urban fabric in all of its complexity. The park is too easy. But it was too chilly this morning for difficulty, and my goal was to get to work. Exploring the urban fabric can happen some other day.

The park was full of chickadees: singing, making alarm calls, chasing each other through the caragana that lines the southern edge of Wascana Lake. No other birds could be seen. Animal tracks crossed the snow, but only one animal appeared: a skinny, dark squirrel, running from one tree to another. Mostly, we looked at the rime of frost coating every twig and branch, which sparkled in the morning sun.

When we left in the afternoon, just before four o’clock, the sun was low in the sky, making the kind of light filmmakers call “magic hour.” It was much warmer than this morning. The frost was gone. There was no wind. I listened to the chickadees and the crunch of our boots on the snow. We walked through the park, then down College Avenue, where we saw a half-dozen fat squirrels in a tree. One was gabbling about something; the others were silent. By the time we arrived home, the sun had set–short days at this latitude in January. I fed the cats and started thinking about supper.

Now I’ve blogged three days in a row. Can I keep the streak going?

What if, I asked myself this morning, I tried to blog about something every day? Would that encourage me to walk more, or to write more? I wouldn’t have to take a picture every time, although I could carry the little water- and shockproof camera I bought after almost destroying my Sony in a downpour in Scotland. Would that be a way to accomplish something different this year? Would I be able to stick to that resolution?

I was pondering these questions this morning when a walk was suggested. I couldn’t say no: this was my chance to put that resolution into practice. We walked one of our usual routes: through the neighbourhood to the pedestrian bridge on Wascana Creek, west to Elphinstone Street, across the bridge to the south side of the creek, west to Albert Street, across another bridge, and back along the creek’s north side. It’s another bright, warm day–or as warm as Saskatchewan in January is likely to get: minus 11. Warm enough that a spring jacket is enough for me, warm enough that a hat isn’t required. We startled a jackrabbit, which sprinted across a vacant lot. Chickadees sang by the creek, house sparrows beside houses. Smiling dogs on leashes. Children sledding down the side of the flood-control dike. Wood smoke. Then home.

I was paying little attention to my surroundings, though. Instead, I was running through my anxieties about the new semester, which starts tomorrow. I couldn’t break out of those ruminations. They were still with me when we returned home. Walking is often offered as a way to reduce anxiety; it doesn’t always work.

Then, after lunch, I picked my way up Albert Street, on snowy sidewalks and through intersections treacherous with ice, to the barbershop. I stopped on the way at an Asian store to buy green tea to fortify myself during the coming semester. The barber trimmed my beard, which I’ve been growing since November. “That looks right,” he told me. “It’s nearly three months old.” He used clippers to remove the tufts and even everything out, and then I got a short version of a hot-towel shave. When I decide to remove this beard, I’ll be going back for the full hot-towel treatment!

Afterwards, clean and tidy, I walked east on Dewdney Avenue and south on Broad Street to College Avenue, and then home. This time, the walking did help soothe my worries, even though the surroundings–busy streets thick with traffic–were, I would’ve thought, less likely to generate a sense of calm. Why the difference between this morning and this afternoon? I couldn’t say. I do feel a little more prepared to teach this week, though. At least I won’t look like a grizzled prospector whose mule, burdened with supplies, is tied to a bicycle rack outside.

I promised, or threatened, myself that on New Year’s Day I’d walk around both halves of Wascana Lake–both the half frequented by strollers and the other, less populated half by the university and the Ring Road. It felt like a good way to begin the new year, to clear away the cobwebs left behind by the old one. So, this morning, after breakfast, we set off on our journey.

It was just cold enough that there were sundogs in the clear blue sky, just cold enough that the trees were covered in frost. A lovely day, really, to be outside. We trudged along Wascana Creek, where we passed a young man hauling a blue wheelie bin filled with scrap plastic somewhere for some odd purpose, and then crossed Albert Street and entered the park. I ignored the opportunities for photography offered by the frost. Instead, I found myself delighting in forward momentum, in rhythm, the steady plodding of my footsteps. That is, until the reality of a lazy Christmas week kicked in, and I had to slow my pace. I envied the grace of the runners who passed us, their speed, the apparent effortlessness of their footfalls. People walking dogs were friendly but kept their companions tightly leashed; no opportunities for petting warm fur were afforded. Animal tracks crossed the snow, but no animals were visible; chickadees and other birds called, but I saw few. The park was mostly empty, an expanse of white snow and blue shadows. Ice fog rose from the lake, and through it, a condominium development on the other side of the Ring Road took on the appearance of a castle. A smell of rotten eggs rose from the lake, too, as anaerobic bacteria digested the summer’s goose poop. The resulting gas must find its way through cracks in the lake ice. Frost glittered in the air. A raven croaked.

As morning became afternoon and the temperature rose, the frost began dropping from the trees in large, white tufts. The sundogs disappeared. We wandered out of the park into a neighbourhood we didn’t know, following streets and alleys that curved back and delivered us close to where we began. No matter. A quick lunch and then home, down streets worn familiar with repetition. It’s hard to find new things in a small city; sometimes that desire is limited to a novel piece of graffiti, or a row of trees seen from a new angle, or an alley previously unknown and untrodden. Or, as today, a cityscape made unfamiliar by hoarfrost.