What I Love About Winter

Text by Leigh MacMillan Hayes

’ve always loved winter and in fact, moved to Maine thirty years ago for that very reason. Well, that and a teaching job. The job came and went because of life’s changes, but I’m still here. And so is winter.

And the more time I spend outside, the more I love it. It’s not just the cool, crisp air that I find so exhilarating. During this season, the landscape reveals itself and all its complexities. Intense color gives way to details I may dismiss in other seasons.

I consider myself fortunate to be among those who celebrate winter with joy. But in order to do that, I need to head outside daily. A trip to the mailbox isn’t enough for me, especially since ours is located beside the front door.

It’s in the woods that I’m most at home. Odd to think that I leave home to be at home. But that’s how it feels. In the winter world I find my smiling place.

I follow mammal tracks and look for signs that tell me their stories. I know where the deer pause to browse bark, or lay down to spend a few hours at night. I check their beds, especially wherever two or three have gathered to see if their backs were to each other. The theory is that they arrange themselves this way so that they allhave eyes and ears ready—ever on alert for predators. I’m in awe of their keen sensory awareness.

I recognize the difference between coyote and bobcat prints. I’m always amazed when I realize that what I thought was one coyote, turns out to be two as their tracks suddenly split apart to surround their prey. And finding bobcat prints makes my heart jump with joy. I’m not sure why. Perhaps it’s their wildness. Or beauty. The fact that they are solitary, elusive and oh, so clever.

I notice numerous hemlock branches scattered on the ground and look for a porcupine’s incisor marks visible on the nipped ends. Of course, before walking under the tree, I look up in hopes of catching sight of the quilled critter. More than once I have. I also want to know if it’s up there because porcupines have been known to fall from tree limbs. I don’t want to be the landing pad.

I quiz myself constantly on tree bark as I continue to develop my bark eyes. I’ve learned the basic patterns of vertical strips, scales, ridges and furrows, curly and peeling. Some have easy clues that help. I look for a bull’s-eye target on red maple. Red pine could be a jigsaw puzzle. At the base of gray birch branches are triangular chevrons. Corky ash bark reminds me of cantaloupe rinds. And Northern red oaks showcase their rusty red furrows between flattened ridges that look like ski trails. I’m fascinated by the idiosyncrasies of all.

I pay attention to the structure of branches and buds. Knowing that branches grow in an opposite manner on some trees and alternate on others helps to narrow down the species, especially when I question my bark ID. Maples, ash and dogwood are among those with opposite branching. And then there are the waxy-scaled buds, some smooth, others hairy. Each species presents itself in a different manner like the crowned cluster at the end of oaks, narrow lance shape of beech, or domed white ash. Without leaves to muddle the scene, other characteristics make their own statement.

I search for beech trees, always scanning the bark for bear claw marks, which stand out better in the winter world. Though bears climb other trees, on the smooth-barked beech, their telltale scratches are striking. The marks I find are not fresh; they become more noticeable as the tree matures. Needless to say, I’m thrilled to witness the evidence of such wildness.

I examine scat whenever I find it. By its shape, size and contents, I can often identify the critter that left it behind. Of course, as I tell others, when I’m alone, I’m 100% correct in my ID. Occasionally, I’ve been known to scoop it up and bring it home to dry. This past year a friend said, “I don’t think anyone has ever shown me their scat collection before.” A first for everything. For the most part, though, I leave it alone because it serves as a billboard to others: gender, health, availability and boundary markers are announced through this natural package.

I check out woody fungi growing on trees. Identifying mushrooms is not my forté, but my skills are improving. Among my favorites is the tinder polypore known as a hoof fungus. Because of the way the gray, concentric layers stack up year after year, it really does resemble a horse’s hoof attached to the side of a tree. Another favorite is the artist’s conk, so called because the pore surface leaves a stain where it has been drawn upon. Though these are the fruiting bodies, most of the
fungus lays hidden inside the tree, where its fungal threads digest the lignin and cellulose in the wood. I appreciate the work of these organisms—nature’s original recyclers.

I admire winter weeds and the interesting structures they offer in the landscape. Dried flower stalks poke their heads through the snow and display the intricate framework that once supported a blossom. While their seeds wait for dispersal, either by bird, animal or wind, they show off an under-appreciated beauty. There’s the plume-like goldenrods with fuzzy seeds still attached. The coneflower of a black-eyed Susan reminds me of a gumdrop. Milkweed has its woody pods and Queen
Anne’s Lace looks like a bird’s nest. Even in their final moments they offer a poetic statement.

But most of all, I take time to wonder about the scene before me. How the ice forms on a rushing brook; the way evergreen polypody ferns curl when it’s extremely cold; the fact that witch hazel and hobblebush buds survive despite being naked; why some hemlock wounds swirl down the side of the tree. My questions are many as I make time to notice.

And I’m surprised by how much the ordinary in nature constantly thrills me. Locating pileated woodpecker scat among wood chips, finding a bird’s nest in a tree, noticing how lungwort turns neon green after a snowstorm, watching a snowshoe hare for a few minutes, being startled by a ruffed grouse that explodes from its snow nest or siting mouse tracks that end at wing marks—it never gets old. And with it comes a better understanding of the extra-ordinary—a reverence for the life-systems before me in this winter landscape, where all that appears to be dead is actually alive.

No matter how much time I spend outside, I come away with a natural high, thankful for the chance to be fully present. Here. Now. Winter.