Deep Winter
It has been a steady barrage of wind . . . the sort of wind that occupies your thoughts, and raises your voice.
The year 2025 went out with a howl. I understand that some of you may be thinking how, metaphorically, the year howled start to finish, but I refer to the howling winds that have been our regular companions for weeks, this past week being no exception. It has been a steady barrage of wind, gusting to twenty-five and thirty miles an hour, the sort of wind that occupies your thoughts, and raises your voice.
I believe the culprit has been warmer temperatures to the south unsettling the polar vortex, allowing arctic air to leak into New England. It has led to uneven temperatures that are seasonal for a few days, then frigid, swept in and out by the wind. The pattern feels unusual. It feels windier than last year, which someone may be able to confirm. But, definitely, it feels windier than last year.
If you live in the city and keep losing your hat going around the corner, you may be similarly awake to the feeling of more wind in your life. We live in a clearing in the woods, surrounded by hemlocks, spruce trees, and tall white pines. The wind whips through them, making noise like the shaking of heavy blankets. The sound comes closer at night, rattling the windows. I lie in bed thinking about power lines, road access, which trees can reach the house or garage if they are battered to the limits of their endurance.
I have always imagined trees favoring the wind as a form of calisthenics. In an otherwise stationary existence, except for what we don’t see happening underground, why shouldn’t they welcome the wind for the chance to loosen the joints and swing with a neighbor? But everything has its limits, and I have watched through the glass doors of my studio the nearest crop of tall hemlocks get tossed to and fro, and dipped to the dance floor. Put to the same strain, my dates used to excuse themselves to find their friends. The hemlocks, very much the favored partners of a winter wind, have no such option. They must dance on, and by morning, they have had enough—branches on the ground, others looking limp. Now, after weeks of it, I sense they shudder as they hear the wind coming down the hill.
This week, with more wind on the way carrying a full manifest of frigid temperatures, we were being warned about accumulating ice on the trees as a result of rain that crept in during a warm interval. The start of the week was particularly sloppy. When temperatures started to fall in the afternoon, the unpaved roads, like ours, were coated in glare ice. I discovered this heading out in the truck, turning onto the road from the driveway, and sliding sideways into the opposite bank. It is difficult to see glare ice at first, which is clear as glass, like black ice on a paved road. And once you’re on it, steering and braking abandon you.
In my opinion, the prospect of an ice storm is more fearful than a blizzard. Both impede travel. Both impact the power grid. But nature, overall, is more vulnerable to ice than snow. While we must dig our way out of a blizzard, we can, at least, dig. We can only wait for ice to melt. If it remains cold, as it has this past week, the ice will grind away, in demoralizing fashion, continuing to exact a toll on the trees, severing limbs, even after the storm has passed.
Fortunately, in the few hours before the heavy gusts and cold arrived earlier this week, the temperature climbed back to thirty-seven on our outdoor thermometer, enough to dismiss the ice that had formed in the freezing rain through the previous day. By nightfall, relieved of that burden, the trees were able to confront the return of their tormenters, bending and dipping, hopefully not breaking.
The presence of all this ice on the road, the driveways, and footpaths, has brought out the traction sand. No one really uses snow melt or salt around here, except the highway departments, which apply some sort of chemical to roadways. We learned a long time ago that salt, etc., melts the ice, which refreezes unless one has been diligent enough to scrape and cart it away. But you never get rid of all the moisture that remains. Sand on top of ice is the best answer. During acute episodes, such as we’ve had, sand goes down by the shovel full. We called a vendor this week to come look at our furnace which was having a temperamental moment (it’s entitled, after several years of trouble-free performance), and his question ahead of the service call was, “Are you sanded?” That’s experience talking, this time of year.
We are halfway through winter, and just settling in. The distractions of the holiday season always help the first half speed by. Now, the long month of January stretches out in front. It is deep winter. Wind and cold without colorful lights, ribbons, turkey, stuffing, or chocolate yule logs. A month from now we may begin to think about spring, ordering seeds, and notice that it remains light at five o’clock.
For now, our collars are up. I turn my head to catch the wind from behind, and must kick the sand off my boots before going inside, where it still accumulates in dry clumps on the doormat. My wife has requisitioned one of the garage mats, and ordered another online. The vacuum cleaner stays where we can reach it, enjoying an everyday appliance status equal to the toaster and coffee maker. Everything is being done to keep winter outdoors.
While it goes on, I’ll take a break to wish you Happy New Year. Thank you for reading.
Please remember to wipe your feet.