tallest peak in New England, at 6,288 feet. Itâs also where some of the worst weather in the world occurs, including the highest-ever recorded wind speed in the western and northern hemispheres, 231 mph in 1934. It gets almost 100 inches of precipitation a year, a lot of it very quickly, the record being 11 inches of rain in twenty-four hours. The lowest recorded temperature at the summit is -59 degrees F, the highest a balmy 72 F; all year, enormous storms rage on the mountain, which sits at a lucky confluence of Pacific, Atlantic, and Gulf weather systems and gets them all, all at once, in full force.
Down in the valleys, where we live, the temperatures and winds are milder, but no less interesting to a newcomer like me. Growing up in Arizona, I had little experience of seasons, except for the extreme summers, which were so scorchingly hot, we tried to stay inside a lot of the time. In the deepest winter, when the temperatures dropped into the 60s, we put on cardigans and turned off the air conditioner. Later, when I lived in New York, the seasons were dramatic but unconnected to the natural world, fundamentally human. Winter meant keen, street-focused winds, banks of rocklike, black snow and snarled traffic, and internal coat-hunched thoughts; spring meant an explosion of urban social life and a shedding of garments. Summer meant sweltering streets and frequent escapes to local beaches orwherever else you could go, and autumn meant a return to interiority, a back-to-school intellectual energy.
For the first time, living in New England has acquainted me viscerally with the connection between the weather and time of year and the natural world and food chain. This land of farmers has distinct cycles of planting, growing, harvest. Then thereâs a kind of patient regrouping during the very long, very cold, very quiet winters, which provide a deep rest for people and land alike; a state of hibernating renewal during which wild animals scramble to stay alive. Thin coyotes and hungry blue jays forage for fallen apples in the orchards; squirrels take refuge in warm eaves and people live on the harvestâs stored root vegetables, canned garden produce, and frozen packages of meat; farmers pick rocks out of their fields and spend hours by the fire poring over seed catalogues dreaming of their spring plantings. And hermit writers hunker down, burrow in, and work.
On the whole, itâs true, what I tell people about loving the winters up here. Up here, when it snows, everyone goes out and shovels and plows and throws sand and salt, and then we all get on with our days. In New York, life generally ground to a halt after a snowstorm for one perfect day of quiet and dazzling white, sledding in parks and snowmen near front stoops, and then the gears reengaged, the soot and grime descended, and the sidewalks remained frozen, treacherous obstacle courses of dirty snow-ice heaps until it all melted, finally, overflowing the gutters. In New England, snow is dealt with efficiently, without drama, as just another part of life. City sidewalks are clear, for the most part, and whenever itâs possible, snowbanks are shoveled out of the way of pedestrians and traffic.
In fact, winter is in many ways my favorite time to be in the White Mountains, in the farmhouse with Brendan and Dingo, the three of us all alone at the end of the dirt road. Winter in the countryside is flat-out beautiful, even the bleakest, coldest days; the snow iswhite and clean, the air is crystalline and fresh. There is no better place or time to work productively, day after day, free of social obligations and distractions. Brendan and I sit writing at the kitchen table, looking out the window at the bare, white mountains, while Dingo guards the house on his window seat, ears tipped forward on full alert, eyes glued to whatâs going on out the window, which isnât much.
The outside world is muffled and still. Bare black branches drip in an icy rain
Down in the valleys, where we live, the temperatures and winds are milder, but no less interesting to a newcomer like me. Growing up in Arizona, I had little experience of seasons, except for the extreme summers, which were so scorchingly hot, we tried to stay inside a lot of the time. In the deepest winter, when the temperatures dropped into the 60s, we put on cardigans and turned off the air conditioner. Later, when I lived in New York, the seasons were dramatic but unconnected to the natural world, fundamentally human. Winter meant keen, street-focused winds, banks of rocklike, black snow and snarled traffic, and internal coat-hunched thoughts; spring meant an explosion of urban social life and a shedding of garments. Summer meant sweltering streets and frequent escapes to local beaches orwherever else you could go, and autumn meant a return to interiority, a back-to-school intellectual energy.
For the first time, living in New England has acquainted me viscerally with the connection between the weather and time of year and the natural world and food chain. This land of farmers has distinct cycles of planting, growing, harvest. Then thereâs a kind of patient regrouping during the very long, very cold, very quiet winters, which provide a deep rest for people and land alike; a state of hibernating renewal during which wild animals scramble to stay alive. Thin coyotes and hungry blue jays forage for fallen apples in the orchards; squirrels take refuge in warm eaves and people live on the harvestâs stored root vegetables, canned garden produce, and frozen packages of meat; farmers pick rocks out of their fields and spend hours by the fire poring over seed catalogues dreaming of their spring plantings. And hermit writers hunker down, burrow in, and work.
On the whole, itâs true, what I tell people about loving the winters up here. Up here, when it snows, everyone goes out and shovels and plows and throws sand and salt, and then we all get on with our days. In New York, life generally ground to a halt after a snowstorm for one perfect day of quiet and dazzling white, sledding in parks and snowmen near front stoops, and then the gears reengaged, the soot and grime descended, and the sidewalks remained frozen, treacherous obstacle courses of dirty snow-ice heaps until it all melted, finally, overflowing the gutters. In New England, snow is dealt with efficiently, without drama, as just another part of life. City sidewalks are clear, for the most part, and whenever itâs possible, snowbanks are shoveled out of the way of pedestrians and traffic.
In fact, winter is in many ways my favorite time to be in the White Mountains, in the farmhouse with Brendan and Dingo, the three of us all alone at the end of the dirt road. Winter in the countryside is flat-out beautiful, even the bleakest, coldest days; the snow iswhite and clean, the air is crystalline and fresh. There is no better place or time to work productively, day after day, free of social obligations and distractions. Brendan and I sit writing at the kitchen table, looking out the window at the bare, white mountains, while Dingo guards the house on his window seat, ears tipped forward on full alert, eyes glued to whatâs going on out the window, which isnât much.
The outside world is muffled and still. Bare black branches drip in an icy rain
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