It is a commonly accepted fact that I basically live in Narnia (without the fauns, but I bet someone could track down a talking beaver if they put in a little effort). Of course when Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy first arrived in Narnia, they learned that it was “always winter but never Christmas.”
Narnia is a land of winter, and anyone who has ever lived through a good northern winter can tell you of its mysteries: the land blanketed and yet exposed beneath the snow, the extraordinary crystalline brightness of a January day, the quiet turning inward that comes in the dark months, the snap of cold against your skin, settling in to ache in your bones.
Maybe Narnia didn’t have Christmas. But what is Narnia without winter?
Because this year, winter…wasn’t. Our deep, plush, endless, maddening, stays-till-April snowpack never came. Our temperatures only kissed 0˚F before bounding back up into what, for this place, is mild. Events were canceled, snowmobile trails never opened, ski trails shut down, snowshoe expeditions turned into mild-mannered hikes, the American Birkebeiner almost didn’t happen.
A naturalist could tell you all of the impacts this non-winter has had on wildlife—easier for some, but harder for many others, like the long-tailed weasels and snowshoe hares that change color in the wintertime, relying on snow to blend in and avoid predation; or the myriad creatures who depend upon the cozy, deep layers of the subnivean zone beneath the snow for shelter, more tolerable temperatures, and movement.
It’s not only the animals; the trees need snow, too. The white pines, our iconic northern tree, must have that heavy, dense layer covering the knotty, knuckly system of their roots so they are not affected by frost.
And what of us? What are humans in the north without our winter?
A few weeks ago, on February 26, I went for a walk with my family in near 60˚ weather. We made our way back on old logging roads through weak, cut-over aspen into a sprawling grove of hemlock and white pine trees. The sunlight gleamed in that special, dusty way it only does in old-growth forests; the place had a consciousness about it, a lived-in awareness, as if the trees and their guardians regarded us as we picked our way through, calling for dogs, checking compass readings.
It was a magical place, and perhaps because of its magic, the weather felt all the stranger. The warm wind, which should have been a breath of relief after the long grip of winter, instead felt too-warm, almost feverish against my skin. The forest lay almost entirely naked of snow.
Sometimes when a person is unwell, they get a brightness in their eyes. They radiate heat. If you didn’t know how to read the cues, you might think they were just…warm.
I don’t know if our un-winter has been caused by climate change, or El Niño, or some combination thereof; but we all know that the earth is warming. We have all been told, by scientists, that the earth is unwell. Yet we walk outside, feel the gentleness of the winter, and we allow ourselves to forget. This feels good, we say, like drunkards or fools.
I’m no different from anyone else. I certainly haven’t minded not having to shovel, or dress up in approximately 15 layers to go outside, or worry about putting the dog out when it’s -20˚, or drive on roads that are a dubious, lumpen mess of snow and ice. I certainly have had winters where I have gleefully escaped to warmer climates, feeling like I’ve shed a weight when I don’t have to put on my boots and down coat.
And yet. I feel like I’m missing a trick. My skin and bones long for the aching clarity of the cold; if the days have felt too warm, so have I. Don’t get me wrong, I love 55˚ temps, but our sudden arrival in spring has left my physical body disoriented.
I feel as if I am still waiting—for snow, for the good, raging cold. When the snow wraps up the land in its white arms, I feel as if I, too, am being held. There are thoughts that you can only think in the snow; feelings you can only have when the temperature slides below freezing and the whole world creaks and cracks.
This Narnia place needs its winter dreamtime. Without it, what is this place? Without it, who are we who live here?
Callie - My name is Dave Sachs and I live near Seymour, Wisconsin. I really love your writing! I also really like your Dad's writing as well. I look forward to reading your essays. You've also inspired me to create my own Substack account. I'm retired and write poetry, essays, and a few short stories. After I write them, they languish in obscurity. Your writing is so much better than mine! I enjoy exploring in my canoe the wonders of Wisconsin. Most of my paddles are on local rivers. I shared my writing with a book coach and she informed me that what I was writing were personal narrative essays. It was you though, through your wonderful writing that has motivated me to move past my fear of putting my writing out there! You don't know it yet but I have adopted you as my mentor! Keep up your writing as it is fantastic! Wishing you all the best!
Excellent writing! How true this is about missing that cold!