Let it Snow

The Sweaty Yeti in His Element

The day we moved into our first house in a new town, we were met with six inches of snow. I contacted the previous owner’s landscaper and they had the driveway ready for the moving truck. Since then, I bought a Subaru and a fat tire bike, mostly for the sugar sand that covers this intracoastal plain, but also because I’d be ready for snow when we got more of it.

We didn’t. For nearly 3 years, we’ve never received more than a dusting.

Until last night:

It was only a measly three inches of snow, but it felt like a blessing from the frost-giant’s daughter. My neighbor had graciously cleared the sidewalks with his snowblower, so I hit the unplowed roads and headed to my closest bike trails.

The streets were icy in spots, and I tested my brakes carefully. I slid quite a ways on a sheet of ice but stopped solidly. I haven’t driven in snowy conditions for so long, that I needed to check the car’s capabilities. The last snow I drove in was in Tennessee a year ago, and that was mostly fresh because they stay home when it snows. The Subaru rode atop that snow like Legolas. This flattened snow and iced up sleet was tougher, but careful driving got me to the trails safely. Then I made donuts in the unplowed parking lot. Or tried. The car was too grippy to do it. I could have turned off all the traction controls, but I was there to ride, not goof around.

I met a dog walker with a bike rack, who saw my big tires and smiled. “You’ll be the first one out there!” And I was. I followed his tracks after I got suited up, then took another trail so I’d be alone. I’ve never bicycled in the snow before, so it was a learning experience. My Surly Ice Cream Truck has Maxxis Minion 4.8” studded tires, but no metal studs for ice. I left them inflated at 8 psi and had no trouble with traction, even uphill, or stopping and slowing. But there was no ice here.

What I did find were animal prints in the fluffy, fresh snow. I followed cats, a fox, and a few whitetail deer; I found squirrels, rabbits, a mouse, and perhaps a bird. I also may have seen coyote tracks. There were no human footprints, so they weren’t dogs. Reading the story they told in the snow was delightful. A fox chased a squirrel for a while; the deer walked lazily, dragging hooves through the snow. The mouse—whose prints I only saw as I glanced down and counted tiny little pawprints—only emerged from the underbrush briefly. In the video, you can see me following a fox as they walk down the path.

Thanks to Antonia Malchik for reminding me that every track is a story. Tom Brown, “the Tracker,” also taught me this, but I had forgotten. That’s what makes finding prints so wonderful. The animals tell stories every day, if we care to learn the language of their tracks. The sandy soil here makes it easier, but it is still a difficult skill to master. When fresh snow falls, all who can see can read them.

If it snows again on Friday, you know where I’ll be.

For the love of winter