Leona whines into my face. She knows I’ll crawl out of bed, step into my boots, bundle into my husband’s wool coat, and follow her outside. She’s a 40-pound contradiction—wants walks in the deep of night, stalks away when her name is called, and is not the Labrador retriever that the shelter promised, but a smooshed-face, bat-eared, snaggle-toothed mutt. But I love her. And now, as we walk into the night, the dark swallows her until my eyes adjust. It is mid-February and beyond cold. My tiny hamlet, at the base of a mountain in the northern Adirondacks, is absolutely still. No wind, no crunch of tires on packed snow. The Ausable River, practically in my front yard, is frozen over, pausing the usual whoosh that’s become the soundtrack of my life. The air stings my face. I ball my hands into fists and shove them deeper into my pockets.
Most people say that embracing winter in a place like this means skiing down peaks or through the trees beneath bluebird skies. It’s sledding parties and potlucks, skating on the patch of ice behind the community centre, and fireside hot chocolate or cocktails. These are things I do for fun and sanity, but thanks to Leona, I have found a world shut down, where the pain of the elements has led me to a clarity I’ve never known, where I’ve witnessed a quiet beauty that is all mine.
Snow blankets everything. It is a great leveler, erasing my sloppy garden and a pile of gravel near the driveway. Some nights it gathers or swirls in drifts and piles; others, like tonight, it’s a crust, holding my weight until a boot punches through. I am statue-still, just my breathing and me. The relentless reminders of our chaotic world and its heartbreak are back in my bedroom, charging facedown, on my bedside table. My worries over unpaid bills, medical appointments, my teenagers, elderly parents, stacks of work, and piles of laundry fade.
Through tears—icy temps make my eyes water—I look up, to the pinpricks of light that go on and on. Orion, bow at the ready, is ridiculously crisp. I once read that the bluish stars in his belt are around 15,000°C, among the hottest in the sky. Some nights I’ve observed satellites, planets, even shooting stars. A retired astronomer who sets up a souped-up telescope in a nearby cemetery told me that a third of humanity has never seen the Milky Way. Here, without big box stores, or 24-hour gas stations or lamps stringing our rural roads, it’s up to the moon to show us the way. We trade convenience for the gift of darkness.
A blur of movement means Leona is taking a final lap around the backyard, nose to the snow, maybe sensing the possibility of what sleeps or scurries or has succumbed beneath. I’m at my threshold, too cold to stay another minute. My girl, high-stepping her frozen paws, follows me inside, back to the warmth of my bed.
This story originally appeared in “How to Win at Winter” in our Winter ’23 issue.
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