As much as I lament the exceedingly long nights of winter, I find myself enchanted each year by the sparkle that breaks through the dark of the season. I can, for instance, stargaze before dinner (and again before breakfast, when I step onto the porch to let the dog out). On cold, clear nights, the sky seems to mirror the glittering magic of the winter holiday season. If you’ve never bundled up and reclined in the darkness to watch a meteor shower, I highly recommend trying it. A couple of winters ago, I convinced my daughter to join me on the garden wall and to look up to see if we could catch a glimpse of some of those “shooting stars” during the Geminid meteor shower (which peaks this year from December 13 to 14). It was well worth shivering through the cold to see lights bolting through the sky – and to hear the childlike wonder in the voice of my nearly-grown daughter.
A few years back, to offset the cabin fever that can creep into that long stretch of long evenings, the kids and I adopted a habit of after-dinner walks along our quiet dirt road. When we would all go together, these rambles were often boisterous, as the three teenagers chattered and chucked snowballs at each other, or ran ahead to hide behind trees and snowbanks, then jump out and startle the rest of us. Sometimes only one of my offspring would come along, and we’d fall into contemplative conversation, or pause to marvel at the stars twinkling above us. Now and then, only the dog would join me, and we’d turn into the woods and follow the narrow, well-trodden path in a meandering route back to the house, me allowing my eyes to adjust to the darkness, the dog following forest scents we humans are not privy to.
Despite the stargazing opportunities and after-dinner ambles, winter’s long darkness is my least favorite part of the season. It’s the snow I love best. As a kid, winter meant snow angels and skiing, building snow forts and catching snowflakes on my tongue, wet mittens and boots dried by the woodstove. For many of my children’s younger years, winter meant those same things. We spent snow days off from school sledding or skiing in the woods and building elaborate snow forts in the driveway, complete with tunnels and slides and fortress walls. But snow in winter is becoming more of a hoped-for event and less a seasonal guarantee.
It can be overwhelming to think about what that means – for us, for our forests, for the plants and animals and human economies that rely on cold and snow to survive – and to figure out how we might adjust to it. For many animals, including the snowshoe hare shown on the opposite page, winter rain is devastating for myriad reasons. The depth and longevity of snowpack in a forest affects, well, most everything, and scientists are studying how forest management might help conserve snowpack amid changing winters (see Discoveries, page 68). Research around forests extends past this season, of course, and some of that research appears in this issue of Northern Woodlands in stories related to temperature-driven changes in forest soils (page 20), the latest work to control spruce budworm (page 36), and the final article in our innovative forest products series (page 50).
As always, we’ve tried to balance this issue of the magazine by including recent scientific discoveries and work in the woods, phenology and art, as well as some beauty and contemplation. Todd Davis writes about the feelings of loss and change juxtaposed with wonder and joy as he follows tracks through the winter woods (Homeground, page 28). And photographer Brent Haglund captures some of the magic of the season with his intricate images of snowflakes (“Winter Wonders,” page 12).
As we enter this season that inspires reflection upon both endings and beginnings, here’s hoping we have the chance to catch snowflakes on mittens and admire their lovely details, that we spot a few tracks to hint at what our wild neighbors have been up to, and that we remember to look up at the night sky – and maybe wish upon a star (or a meteor) streaking through the dark.