— from Wendy E. Shepard —
“What do you like about the San Juan Islands in winter?” I asked a friend. The response was that my question was an oxymoron.
Remembering that today, many questions arise. Why do so many residents flee the islands in winter? Why do tourists stay away? Why do we, full-time residents, myself included, so often have the winter blues during the cooler, stormier, wetter weather, the short gray days? What about the other colors?
A few days ago, the first sight of snow blanketing the valley outside the window made my heart leap. It would have been unwise to take my usual walk; holes in the fields made by rabbits or dogs or moles or voles are hidden by the snow, a broken ankle waiting to happen. But the beauty – perhaps it is because white reflects all colors that snow opens up unlimited possibilities and beckons one to new adventures.
Like the adventures in my New England childhood when I was in love with winter, girding the driveway with snow forts, or going to the golf course with my father to “ski” – skis back then being rough-hewn pieces of wood tied to my galoshes. Or those later on, skiing to the office in New York City in what seemed like a parallel universe, the streets almost empty, the city paralyzed by a huge storm.
Snow is an infrequent visitor to the San Juan Islands, a kind of tourist, enjoying a brief weekend but knowing that it isn’t really home. During my 21 years here, I remember only one instance of serious snow. In the winter of 1995-1996, the sky unceremoniously dumped four feet of the white stuff on us, collapsing covered slips and sinking boats. It didn’t faze the longtime residents here. In the early and mid 20th century, summers were very hot and winters cold. Years ago, Mickey Bergman Cahail, then 91, told me that her father would “shovel a path to the outhouse through snow so deep it was like walking through a tunnel to get there.”
At the height of summer’s tourist season, the overall impression can be the abundance of people; in winter, it is the abundance of Nature. Sunrises and sunsets, unlike summer, occur when I’m awake, filling the drifting clouds and the sky above with warm coral, gold, and whatever other colors strike their fancy. House finches lend a rosy hue to the birdfeeders. Fields turn Irish green from the winter rains. Pileated woodpeckers with their flaming red crests laugh at the folly of those few who venture out, and multicolored dogs in truck beds laugh with them.
While one island wag insists that in winter he sits in the dark and grows dark green mold, when pressed he does admit that he gets exercise. Mine is walking. Rainbows of bikers in iridescent colors pass me on the coast roads; so do serious hikers in search of winter wildlife. Even walking alone is entertaining; eagles and ravens, shore birds, cows and sheep and horses, are all within sight and earshot.
“I like winter here,” mused another friend, perhaps influenced by her late father who always said that the gentle winter rains were like a blessing on our heads. “I like it because I can just be, and it’s all right.” She could just be, all her many colors.
If winter can be a time for hibernation, it can also be a time for deepening ties with friends and community. Summer is busy, a major source of income for many islanders in the tourist trade, but in the winter people can slow down, share potluck dinners, tell colorful stories, go to movies, theater events, art galleries, poetry readings, or a musical evening in a restaurant. Winter can be warm.
As I struggle to pour myself into long underwear in preparation for going outdoors, its bright colors remind me that not everything is gray and dark. It is up to me to see gradations of green in the lichen and mosses in the trees, pay attention to the sunset and let my imagination run free amid the colorful cloud patterns in the sky. Winter is just another way of being. Wow. I think I’ve fallen in love with winter again.
Wendy E. Shepard, author of “Lucky to be Alive: A Love Story,” is a playwright, poet, and journalist.
