It’s snowing at last here in New Hampshire. We’ve had a few occasional bouts of flurries up to now, but this is a thick-flaked, low-visibility, snow upon snow storm at last. It’s been cold enough for weeks now to freeze the ground hard as stone so that when we walk in the woods, the ungiving shock of each step reverberates through our ankles. We go out nonetheless, but it’s better when there’s snow.
For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been drawn into an addictive vortex of online fora where people discuss, trade, or sell backpacking gear. I recognize my kindred here; everyone substituting thoughts of sleeping in tents in the mountains for actually doing it. It becomes an expensive time. Everyone is assuaging their cabin fever with new tents, new-to-you packs, or canister stoves, or boots or rain pants. I’ve also been in my basement spreading pine tar on the bottom of some hand-me-down wooden cross country skis, and then heating it in 5 inch sections with a hair dryer I have for no other purpose than this. Malcolm got snowshoes for Christmas that we haven’t even opened yet. We’ve been hiking plenty, and then spending time wistfully patting our skis and lacing and relacing the boots.
I have, like many New Englanders, a tendency to veer from season to season. In May, my ears crusted with crumbly scabs from black fly bites, I fantasize about snow-filled woods. In August, I try to convince myself that the night is cool enough to warrant a thick, cable-knit sweater I haven’t worn in four months, and then, wearing it, I swelter, and sulk, and take it off again. This time of year, wearing that sweater almost constantly, including to bed sometimes, I think of the trails above treeline in the White Mountains, buried under drifts and scoured by winds. It’s not that they aren’t climbable in winter; they are, some days, but I lack the gear for such an assault, so I’m here at home. The long days, and the long gloaming in summer, seem like something I invented. This time of year, the dark wraps its fingers most of the way around the day’s throat, though its strength is ebbing, and the clear pink sunset light on the gray trees comes perceptibly later every day.
This week, I pitched our tent in my bedroom. The boys slept in it the last two nights. It takes up most of the floor so that I can’t pull out my desk chair or get to the sewing machine. Leaning toward the computer and reading through the gear posts, or typing an email sideways with one foot through the tent door, my mind crowded with these thoughts, I felt it fitting that at last, the physical thing was taking up all this space.