Whitney Kempfert

When I was a child, I used to spend a week every winter and summer at my grandparent's farm in southern Minnesota. One winter, it snowed more than usual and was very windy. The wind swept the snow into giant 9-ft snow drifts. Not only were these snow drifts perfect for crawling and sliding but they were also perfect for building snow forts. My brother and I had never seen snow depth of more than 3 feet. The deep snow drifts on my grandparents’ farm were a whole new opportunity for my brother and I to dig straight down into the snow and to dig tunnels. We dug a tunnel spanning from the side to the back of the farm house, which was at least 15 feet long. While digging, we faced some obstacles, such as digging into the well pump. However, near the end of the week, we were able to crawl from one end of the tunnel to the other. I will never forget sitting inside that tunnel in complete stillness and quiet. I felt content but also scared that I would never leave the tunnel because its stillness seemed to suck me in. On our last day at the farm, the sun came out and started to melt the snow. My brother and I knew our tunnel would not be safe anymore because of the chances of it collapsing, so we stomped it in. I felt sad about the end of this adventure knowing that we would never again experience this amazing tunnel. But I also felt a sense of domination since my brother and I were its creators and destroyers. I also felt bad about the mess my brother and I left in the yard; the snow, which before was a beautiful cascading flow of sparkly white, became a giant chunky worm hole.