Finding Winter

Living in DC, I began to forget what winter felt like. Sure, it snows in the city, but snowbanks quickly turn gray with grit and sidewalks become slides of slush. So on the first day of February, I went back to New Hampshire to find winter. 

As I drove north, the trees turned to pines and the snow rose higher out of the earth. Then, finally, I rounded a corner and looked up. Mt. Washington hovered over the foothills. A tower of glittering ice. Gusts of snow swirled from its ridges.

Below Pinkham Notch, I put on nordic skis and headed into the woods. I climbed the hills slowly. I wasn’t there to rush. The clouds hung low above me and the wind was still. After last week’s storm, powder unfurled through the forest from horizon to horizon. 

The trail descended to a river that glowed green under chunks of ice. I guessed it was because of the way the light reflected against the ice, but I wasn’t sure. Everything was silent except the water and a pair of Cardinals that fluttered after each other through frozen branches. This is why I was here. To leave the city and head north. To shake the senses, breathe in the cold air, float through the snow, and stare in wonder at winter.