Where we live, winter is the subjective season. It rolls in with the potential to be all negative. It is dark. It is cold. Most things outside die or sleep for months. Water freezes. Local food stocks grow scarce. (We eat turkey, for God’s sake.)
The other seasons, the objective seasons, carry with them specific and obvious signs of joy. Spring? Need I say anything? Summer is warm and life bursts forth from every corner. Fall brings bounty and harvests and sharp, blue skies; long (enough) days of crisp walks (no bugs!); starry nights; our famous fall foliage; wood fires and snow tires and first frosts.
And the door then shuts. The leaves blow away. The skies darken. Damp, wind-blown air chills bones. The snow comes, the clocks fall back, we lock down 'til May. Do we simply fatten up and sleep for six months or do we embrace the barely habitable habitat of northern Vermont in winter? Here is a six-step approach to the season.
Step 1: Snow falls on the mountain to our west; the snow is an 'elevation fall,' so the slopes are just wet and brown at the base, but we carry the sled bravely up. Above us the hill is covered in pure white. We hike and hike and hike. The children whine but persevere. Soon we are above the snow line and smiles form. Another half an hour and we are in ankle deep, crunchy snow. Another fifteen minutes of walking and our knees disappear.
We break out the sled and ride – insanely – straight down the slope, using our soaked, mud splattered boots to steer, brake, hope not to die. The kids scream with joy. We slam into water-bars dug across the trail, check for dislocated necks and hike back up and do it again.
Step 2: It is just before dark (meaning about two o’clock in the afternoon) and we are bored. We pile everyone – two adults, two kids, one dog – into the car and drive to the barricade blocking the road to Smuggler’s Notch, separating Stowe from Jeffersonville, Vermont. The narrow gap-road will be closed all the winter long. We start to walk. The trees framing the road close in and the steep sides of the Notch bear down on us; icefalls and silent woods allow us to spin a story of magic and mystery for our little girl. The moon rises and true dark descends. We continue to walk up, up, up. The dog runs, deer like, crazy, back and forth, up and down the mountain. More dogs and people come and the dogs enjoy the hike as much as the people. The kids climb a short hill and sit atop a cliff, scaring the parents. We hike out in near total dark; tired, cold, wet, smiling.
Step 3: The snow is falling all the way down to the floor of the valley now. The ski area is poised to open. Smiles form on sullen faces throughout our town. Some of us choose to hike for skiing, avoiding the lifts for a short while longer. We skin straight up a now nearly knee-deep snow-pack. The sky breaks out in crystal blue. There is no wind. The temperature creeps north of freezing and trees loose ice and slush. The dog bounds in the snow, racing up and then bulleting down the hill, making us feel plodding, lazy, slow. Snow shoe and boot tracks pepper the trail. Snowboarders appear and slip by on silent snow. At apex, we stop and strip skins from skis. The turns down are tentative, thought-out, early season turns. Certain muscles – asleep these past seven month – bolt awake. The two-hour trip up is punctuated by the ten minute ski down. We climb into the car tired, cold, wet, smiling.
Step 4: Pete’s Greens of Craftsbury, Vermont is selling us a mystery bag of local food each week. The house is straining to hold the carrots and squashes and turnips. We crank the wood stove until it hisses and moans and glows. It is time to make soup. The smells of stove-hot olive oil and garlic fill us. Onion hits the oil and sputters. Every root vegetable known to man is tossed in. The pot rolls steam into the air, reviving our tired and cold bones. I sift anything I can find into the pot – curry powder, pepper, cayenne pepper, anchovies, paprika. What the hell, I take two scoured, long-ago roasted chickens from the fridge and boil them off in another pot. Soon a stock hits the mix of vegetables and spices. The potion boils. Cream and butter finish it off. I hit the puree button on the first of a thousand winter soups.
Step 5: Family is coming to town. The turkey is ordered. Our next mystery bag from Pete’s Greens arrives two days before Thanksgiving. We roast the bird, sweeten the potatoes, butter small onions, boil cranberries, bake pies and eat and sleep a Thursday away.
Step 6: We will put up the Christmas lights. We stoke the fire even higher and write Christmas Cards. We cook and visit and ski and sled and hike and play through the New Year and until the light comes back.
The subjective season presents this choice: We can choose to embrace it, we can sleep through it, we can JetBlue the heck away from it. I choose A.
David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2010 David Rocchio
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