If you live in the frozen north, to survive the coldest season you need at least one thing you enjoy about winter. It might be skiing, snowshoeing, dog-sledding, snowmobiling, horseback riding in snow, curling up in front of the fire with a good book, or boarding a plane to the Caribbean.
I have lived most of my life north of the 42nd parallel, including 2½ years in the Arctic, and I now live in Vermont. What I love best about winter is snow. Snow has magical powers.
When snowflakes fall from the sky we brush them off our coat sleeves and shake them out of our hats. But if we take the time to examine one, we enter a world of incredible beauty. The crystalline structure of snowflakes – infinitely varied – is sublime.
Everyone knows that no two snowflakes are alike. This was discovered by a Vermont farmer named Wilson Bentley who miraculously photographed over 5,000 individual snowflakes in the late 1800s.
Snow dresses up everything it touches. A city street, grimy with everyday life, takes on a pristine stillness on a snowy night. In the late fall snow transforms the New England landscape – depressingly drab after the brilliant autumn leaves have fallen – into a wonderland. When the sun finally comes out, the snow sparkles like diamonds. Nighttime is particularly magical, when the light from even a sliver of moon is reflected off the blanket of white and the world is silent. One of my favorite things in life is walking outside at night when it is snowing – it is a magical experience, whether I am in the country or the city.
There are many types of snow, each with a use. The moisture-laden snow that falls in the Pacific Northwest (affectionately referred to as “Cascade concrete”) and sometimes in New England, is perfectly suited for making snowmen and other sculptures. A fond memory from my childhood is helping my brother make this snowmonster.
And of course, there is nothing like a good snowball fight. This is my nephew, who is taking it very seriously.
That’s me skiing in Colorado
The abundant light fluffy snow that falls in the Rocky Mountains and in Europe (and on good days in New England), provides humanity with one of the most exhilarating activities we can do. I don’t know why, but many of us love to slide at high speed down a snow-covered hill on skis or snowboards or toboggans, and we will endure frozen fingers and toes to do it.
This is Kotzebue, the village in Alaska where I lived. The frozen Arctic Ocean is in the foreground, the tundra in the background.
The snow in the coldest climes – the polar regions, is very dry. As it settles it takes on a Styrofoam-like consistency that is perfect, when cut into blocks with a snow knife, for constructing snow houses (igloos). I learned that I could gauge the temperature by the sound of my feet on the snow. Cold, dry snow squeaks and the higher the pitch, the colder it is.
Breakup (or “ice out”) in Kotzebue
In Kotzebue snow was present about 9 months of the year. It can fall in any month, but usually begins in earnest in September and ends in April, with most of the snow melted by the end of May, though I took this photo on June 2, 1993.
In the Arctic the landscape is relatively featureless and, when cloaked in snow, the only colors you see are white and a few shades of gray and pink. The winter light, when there is any, is flat (diffuse). There is nothing to provide contrast or perspective. When traveling by snowmobile or dogsled, you might see what appears to be a faraway cabin but, as you approach, it mysteriously transforms into a small rock. There can be a false horizon, as well as temperature inversions that bend light. Your eyes play tricks on you. I used to stumble when the lack of a horizon made me think I was walking up an incline, when the ground was actually sloping down.
One day when traveling across the frozen Kotzebue Sound to Sheshalik, a barren spit of land barely above sea level, I thought to myself, “I don’t remember there being cliffs at Sheshalik.” I kept staring at what looked like high cliffs until – in an instant – they disappeared. No, I’m not crazy, it was due to a temperature inversion; check out the section on “superior mirages” in this link. Here is a photo of a superior mirage in Finland:
The low-lying terrain in the Arctic is mainly tundra, which is vast, mostly treeless, and composed of hummocks – turrets of sod about the diameter of a human head, thrusting out of the damp ground. If you step on the hummocks they wobble precariously. Walking on tundra is like trying to walk across a shallow lake covered with bowling balls. It’s virtually impossible, if not physically, then mentally because it is so infuriating. Snow fills in the spaces between the hummocks. As a result, in the Arctic travel is much easier in winter than in summer, and having enough snow is a matter of survival for Native communities that rely on being able to access remote ice-fishing and hunting camps.
Snow can also make horseback riding in winter a true joy. Riding out in freshly fallen snow is one of my favorite things to do with my horse.
You can also skijor with your horse, and there is nothing like a horse-drawn sleigh ride on a winter’s night. I sometimes free-lunge Tupelo in an outdoor paddock in winter to give him exercise; I think he likes this better than riding stupid circles around the indoor arena. Both of us prefer the outdoors and I love the sight of snow flying from his legs as he gallops through the snow.
Of course, snow is not always a bundle of fun. One winter in New Hampshire after a blizzard dropped 3 feet of snow, my partner and I spent an entire weekend shoveling it.
We literally shoveled the same snow three times: first off the roof onto the porch, then off the porch into the yard, and finally we shoveled paths from the driveway to the front door, propane tanks, and oil fill port.
Despite that, I still love snow. The number of times I have cursed snow is but a tiny fraction of the times I have reveled in its glory.
My 8-year old Inupiat friend, Joe, playing with snow near Shungnak, Alaska.
Happy trails!
Monica
