Los páramos nevados o 'this waste of virgin snow'

Entrada "dedicada" a Manuel, por haber dejado aparcada su aversión a la fotografía y haber accedido a llevarse mi cámara para inmortalizar los páramos nevados. Todas las fotos de esta entrada son suyas.

Con el frío y la nieve, nos tuvimos que repartir a Héctor. Igual que yo me fui a hacer fotos y demás mientras Manuel se quedaba con él en el hotel, yo me quedé con él mientras Manuel se aventuraba a los páramos. Aunque siento no haber puesto pie en ellos, no sé si, de no haber estado Héctor, me hubiera animado a ir de todos modos. Si ya hacía frío en las zonas "civilizadas" y si ya el viento habitual de los páramos es brutal, no logro imaginar cómo era caminar por ellos esos días.

Así que mientras Héctor dormía una siesta épica, yo miraba por la ventana del hotel, tomaba un té calentito y humeante y hojeaba algunos libros, Manuel hacía de Lockwood en Wuthering Heights (Cumbres borrascosas), de Emily Brontë:

I took my hat, and, after a four-miles’ walk, arrived at Heathcliff’s garden-gate just in time to escape the first feathery flakes of a snow-shower.
On that bleak hill-top the earth was hard with a black frost, and the air made me shiver through every limb. [...]
The snow began to drive thickly. I seized the handle to essay another trial; when a young man without coat, and shouldering a pitchfork, appeared in the yard behind. He hailed me to follow him, and, after marching through a wash-house, and a paved area containing a coal-shed, pump, and pigeon-cot, we at length arrived in the huge, warm, cheerful apartment where I was formerly received [...]
[F]ive minutes afterwards, the entrance of Heathcliff relieved me, in some measure, from my uncomfortable state.
‘You see, sir, I am come, according to promise!’ I exclaimed, assuming the cheerful; ‘and I fear I shall be weather-bound for half an hour, if you can afford me shelter during that space.’
‘Half an hour?’ he said, shaking the white flakes from his clothes; ‘I wonder you should select the thick of a snow-storm to ramble about in. Do you know that you run a risk of being lost in the marshes? People familiar with these moors often miss their road on such evenings; and I can tell you there is no chance of a change at present.’ (ch. II)

Manuel no llegó a Top Withins, las ruinas que se encuentran en el lugar en que se supone que Emily Brontë ubicó Cumbres borrascosas, así que no tuvo que vérselas con la "hospitalidad" de Heathcliff.

Yo veo las fotos y recuerdo la poesía de Emily Brontë (los páramos y ella son inseparables, independientemente de las circunstancias):

Cold in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee,
Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!
Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,
Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave?

Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover
Over the mountains, on that northern shore,
Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover
Thy noble heart forever, ever more?

Cold in the earth—and fifteen wild Decembers,
From those brown hills, have melted into spring:
Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers
After such years of change and suffering!

Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,
While the world's tide is bearing me along;
Other desires and other hopes beset me,
Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!
(Fragmento del poema Remembrance)

Come, walk with me,
There's only thee
To bless my spirit now -
We used to love on winter nights
To wander through the snow;
Can we not woo back old delights?
The clouds rush dark and wild
They fleck with shade our mountain heights
The same as long ago
And on the horizon rest at last
In looming masses piled;
While moonbeams flash and fly so fast
We scarce can say they smiled -
(Fragmento del poema Come, Walk with Me)

And, in the red fire's cheerful glow,
I think of deep glens, blocked with snow;
I dream of moor, and misty hill,
Where evening closes dark and chill;
For, lone, among the mountains cold,
Lie those that I have loved of old.
(Fragmento del poema Faith and Despondency)

They weep, you weep, it must be so;
Winds sigh as you are sighing,
And winter sheds its grief in snow
Where Autumn's leaves are lying:
Yet, these revive, and from their fate
Your fate cannot be parted:
Then, journey on, if not elate,
Still, NEVER broken-hearted!
(Fragmento del poema Sympathy)

Y también un poco de Anne Brontë:

But I oped my eyes at last,
And I heard a muffled sound,
'Twas the night breeze come to say
That the snow was on the ground.

Then I knew that there was rest
On the mountain's bosom free;
So I left my fevered couch
And I flew to waken thee.

I have flown to waken thee
For if thou wilt not arise,
Then my soul can drink no peace
From these holy moonlight skies.

And this waste of virgin snow
To my sight will not be fair
Unless thou wilt smiling come,
Love, to wander with me there.

Then awake! Maria, wake!
For if thou couldst only know
How the quiet moonlight sleeps
On this wilderness of snow

And the groves of ancient trees
In their snowy garb arrayed,
Till they stretch into the gloom
Of the distant valley's shade.

O, I know thou wouldst rejoice
To inhale this bracing air,
Thou wouldst break thy sweetest sleep
To behold a scene so fair.

O'er these wintry wilds alone
Thou wouldst joy to wander free,
And it will not please thee less
Though that bliss be shared with me.
(Fragmento del poema The Sudent's Serenade, de Anne Brontë)

Manuel cuenta - y fotografió - pisadas profundas de otros aventureros en los páramos. A la ida el viento helado le empujaba en la espalda, a la vuelta tuvo que hacerse una visera con la mano para poder ver dónde pisaba, así de fuerte era el viento de cara. Al volver a la habitación del hotel venía con las mejillas heladas y rosadas del frío. Creo - espero - que la acogida que le dimos Héctor y yo fue mejor que la de Heathcliff a Lockwood.