21 Nov Outside: Winter’s Subtle Beauty

Each February, Punxsutawney Phil emerges from his burrow in small-town Pennsylvania to tell the American public whether they can look forward to six more weeks of winter. In Montana, cold-weather conditions can last for eight months, and the rule of thumb is to not plant your garden until after Memorial Day. Winter can certainly pose severe weather and challenging conditions, but I’ve also found it to be a season of subtle beauty, wonder, and rejuvenation.

While we don’t have groundhogs in Montana, we do have a close relative that hibernates most of the year and dines on grasses, flowers, and forbs during the waking months: the yellow-bellied marmot. My partner and I named the yellow-
bellied marmot who suns herself on our road during the summer “Marmalade,” after her yellowish-brown fur. These days, Marmalade is deep in hibernation and will remain asleep underground until late May.

As the Winter Solstice approaches, the late-afternoon amber rays of sun glint off the 2-foot-long translucent icicles that hang like stalactites from the exterior of our sunroom. I harvest the last fruit from the tomato plants I moved indoors from our summer outdoor garden. The remaining orange cherry tomatoes are firm, rubbery, and lack the sweetness usually infused by the summer sun.

Around this time, the mile-long winding dirt road that stretches from our house to the state highway freezes, thaws, and then freezes again, creating dangerous conditions on its steep slopes. The road’s precipitous drop off scares me enough that, for two weeks, I park my car at the bottom of our small mountain even though my four-wheel-drive has studded winter tires.

Each morning before dawn, I put on micro-spikes to navigate the road’s slippery surface, place bear spray in my belt, and hike through the darkness to my car to start my early-morning commute. The crisp shaft of light from my headlamp punches a hole through the darkness as I trudge across the snow. The air is crisp and clear.

During the full moon, lunar light reflects off the snow, silhouetting the surrounding ridgelines, towering ponderosa pine, and stately Douglas fir. In the wetland below my neighbor’s house, I startle a brilliant white snowshoe hare that bolts across the road with the kind of speed and agility that would put any NFL running back to shame. The haunting calls of great horned owls float through the forest.

When I first hiked to my car in the dark, I was scared that wandering bears and mountain lions might view me as a tasty, slow-moving white-tailed deer. To calm my nerves, I sang songs my father used to sing as we hiked through Arizona canyons and New England forests. I remember his calm voice, the red rucksack on his back, and his tan porkpie hat. Despite the decades since those outings, I still remember many of the lyrics from “Sweet Betsy from Pike” and “Waltzing Matilda.”

On January weekends, I ski down to the creek at the bottom of our mountain. Fresh snow covers the trees like a soft Pendleton blanket. The snow shrouds the branches, creating mythical creatures: snow goblins stand sentinel by the side of the road and forest gnomes peek out from behind tree trunks.

Down by the creek, deer tracks cross in such a precisely mathematical and perpendicular manner that I can’t believe they’re made by chance; they must be the marks of a purposeful ungulate rendezvous. Above the creek, perched on a power line, a northern shrike surveys the land for an easy meal. I stop to marvel at the delicate, thin, glassy sheet of ice that covers the surface of the creek as a flock of mallard ducks explodes into the air from the open water.

Back at the house, I realize that, for many regions of our country, Groundhog Day is a harbinger of spring, but residents in the northern latitudes know we still have more winter ahead. And, though cold-weather challenges persist, I look forward to exploring more of the subtle beauty and wildlife of one of our most underrated seasons. But I will also be thinking of Marmalade the marmot, hibernating snug in her burrow, waiting patiently for grass, flowers, and forbs to emerge from the thawing spring earth.

Seth Shteir is a natural resource, grant, and education specialist. He lives in Helmville, Montana.