My snowshoes made a soft crunching sound as I herringboned up the steeper part of the hill across from my Vermont home. The sun was bright, and its strong rays turned the snow crystals into a field of diamonds. A few clouds floated across the mid-day sky. Some 20 inches of snow had fallen overnight, and I was busy making new tracks across the undisturbed snow. It was good exercise for a sunny Sunday morning.

This was my first winter in the picturesque house at the end of a dirt road in South Woodbury. It was the early 1970s and I was in that great physical condition so necessary to handle the never-ending chores associated with country living. There was wood to chop, fixing-up to do, nails to hammer, snow to shovel, and...well, you name it. Today’s hike was a break from the routine.

At the crest of the hill adjacent to the house I paused. There was no wind today, piles of  leaves were covered by a thick quilt of snow, most birds had headed for warmer climates and there wasn’t a sound to be heard. For a city boy from noisy Brooklyn, it was the first time I had experienced complete silence--and I loved it. Except for that annoying muffled boom, boom, boom — like a bass drum beating somewhere in the distance. I wondered what it could be until I realized that in the powerful stillness I could hear the beating of my own heart!

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