When you live in Wisconsin, as we do, February is the longest month of the year, despite having only 28 days. It snows at least once a week, the white piles mount higher and higher along the streets and parking lots, and temperatures hover near zero or lower. When you mix in the Covid isolation and our self-imposed austerity (dieting, no drinking or excess spending), it’s a concoction that could be terribly depressing. The urge to get out of the house and do something to fend off cabin fever can become overwhelming, so every day, I set out for a long walk. These solitary excursions remind me that there is beauty in the winter landscape, and that life goes on beneath the gelid surface.
Yesterday, I woke up at 4:30 and checked the online weather page for River Falls. I don’t like to do this, but it’s apparently some sort of requirement in Wisconsin. The same way that other people my age check the obits every morning to see if they’re listed there, each day, people in Wisconsin check the temperature and the snow forecast. They read about the projected snowfall or plummeting temperatures and smile and nod with a strange sort of pride, saying “Ah, yeah; it’s gonna be brutal.”
I usually wait until it gets light and warms up a bit before heading out for a long walk of an hour or more. On Monday, when I woke up, it was 12-below with a wind chill factor of about 20-below. Later, I drove downtown to get some variety in my walk, and when I passed the bank on Main Street, the clock read 8:30 and 8-below zero. By the time I had walked completely around the college campus and returned to my car, though, the sun was warming things up, and the temperature was up to 6-below. The sunshine is bright, giving the illusion of warmth, and it feels great to be outside.
Everyone tells me that it’s been a mild year in terms of snowfall, but there’s well over a foot of the white stuff in the yards, and the plows have pushed it into massive piles that are taller than I am. I hated snow when I lived in Chicago, largely because it turned black and depressing within a day or two. Because of the light traffic and more-frequent snowfalls, though, that doesn’t usually happen here. In fact, this week, a quarter-inch to an inch of snow fell each night, like a fresh coat of paint on a dingy wall. It wasn’t enough to require shoveling, but just enough to make it pretty again. The snow on the streets is packed down and slick, but everywhere else, it’s beautiful and white. In fact, last month, we had a full week of an incredible phenomenon that I had never seen before. It’s called “Rime Ice,” and it’s a special situation where weather conditions create lots of fog, but at night the fog freezes into a crystalline state on everything. The result (see picture above), is a fantastic display of nature at its most beautiful, with ice shining like diamonds on the streets, on top of the snow, and on the branches of trees and bushes.
The weather is cold, but I’m better prepared for my second winter in Wisconsin. My most frequent online purchases have been from Eddie Bauer and L. L. Bean, so I now have good boots and a light-weight coat that claims it will keep me warm in temperatures down to 35-below. I don’t plan on testing that lower extreme, but it’s comforting to know that I could. The boots make it difficult to run, but I walk fast, and they don’t hinder me in that regard. I’ve grown a winter beard, which is also required by law in Wisconsin, so the only part of me that is cold is my pink cheeks above the white beard. I picture myself as a thinner version of Santa Claus as I roll through town. On the coldest days, my tears freeze on my eyelashes, and the condensation from my breath forms little balls of ice on my beard.
On my walk today, I saw one scene that reminded me of a Currier and Ives print from the 1800s. Near the downtown area, a mail-delivery girl, in sunglasses because of the bright sun, was high-stepping her way through the deep snow, trying to reach the mailbox on one particular house. In River Falls, the older sections of town still have boxes attached next to the front doors, and the mail-persons deliver it right to the door. I felt bad that the owners had not shoveled the walk leading to their mailbox, but despite the snow and her heavy load, she had a big smile and greeted me cheerfully. Another great moment occurred a few days ago when we attempted to pick up the kids for a home-school session at our house. A heavy snow and underlying ice made it difficult for Kathleen to get up Ben’s fairly steep driveway. She was stuck halfway in the driveway and halfway in the street. I was frantically trying to shovel the drive and get some salt down because a snow plow was bearing down on us from a block away. Instead of being angry at us for blocking his way, the driver stopped, got out with a big smile, and asked if he could help us. If that same situation had occurred in Chicago, we would have been buried in a shower of snow while the driver flipped us off and sped past. I love River Falls.
One day, I chose the more difficult route along the foot paths that follow the Kinnickinnic River. The river and its South Branch are frozen over, with solid white portions of the surface broken up by shiny sections that look like glass. If you look closely, you can see beneath the surface where the water continues to bubble and move downstream, toward the St. Croix River, seven miles away. Similarly, I saw no animals, but tracks were visible everywhere in the fresh snow, mostly deer, rabbits, and squirrels, with the occasional large paw prints of some critter I hope to avoid. A large tree, which I had noticed weeks ago, now lies parallel to the ground, a victim of the local beavers. The trunk is over a foot in diameter, and I noticed it earlier because you could see that the felling work had begun, with busy teeth cutting a deep vee uniformly around the trunk. Those relentless efforts were eventually rewarded, and the tree came down. Smaller trees in the area have also been chewed down. I edged to the bank of the river, but could see no lodge or dam under construction. Perhaps dam-building is a springtime endeavor. The nearby Powell Dam, about which I had written earlier, is still open, and Lake Louise remains drained. The city recently said that the dam may never be repaired, as the $100,000 cost to fix a dam that they are planning to take down in a few years anyway seems senseless. I was amused by the irony of one dam being scheduled for demolition, while, a quarter-mile downstream, the beavers are preparing to build another.
I paused to contemplate the fact that, beneath the surface, there are probably many animals in hibernation for the winter. This is a fascinating annual condition for many creatures, wherein their cardiovascular systems slow down dramatically, enabling them to conserve energy during times of extreme cold and a lack of food sources. Tree frogs, the greatest hibernators of them all, actually stop breathing and pumping blood completely during the winter. As I walk along the river, I contemplate the possibility that box turtles, bats, birds, and hedgehogs, cousins of the famous Punxsutawney Phil from Pennsylvania, could be hibernating within a few feet of me. A bit more unnerving is the thought that there could be a nest of hundreds, or even thousands, of garter snakes, hibernating and curled together for warmth, in a nest beneath my feet.
I guess the theme here is that while, to all outward appearances, everything is quiet and dormant, there’s a lot going on if you take the time to look closely. Also, despite the snow, ice, and frigid temperatures, this is a beautiful place to call home.
I just read the forecast for tomorrow, and a weather advisory warns that the wind-chill factor will dip down to 50-below zero. Perhaps my new coat will be fully tested after all.
I leave you with a short video. The school at which I taught, Harpeth Hall, has a special program called Winterim in January. For three weeks, the juniors and seniors travel to Europe or other exotic locales, or they serve internships of one sort or another. Meanwhile, the freshmen and sophomores take unique, brief courses that are only taught at that time. I always enjoyed Winterim, because I could teach anything I wanted for those three weeks. Among other courses I created was one I team taught with an irrepressible colleague, Joe Croker. We called it “Songwriting for Guitar,” and we took ten novice musicians and tried to teach them how to play guitar and compose their own songs in just three weeks. In 1999, my second year of teaching that class, we had a remarkable group of freshmen. At the end of the class, we recorded some of the songs they wrote and some cover versions of other songs. I recently found that CD and, this week, I made a film to accompany a version of Gordon Lightfoot’s Song for a Winter’s Night. The four girls were all 14-year-old freshmen, most of whom had never sung in front of others or played guitar before that class. I was amazed at the sophisticated harmonies they worked out for this wonderful song. Enjoy.
