Tulips, Too Early

I still laugh when I remember arriving for my first day of work in the Smokies, in early January 10 years ago, to find a deserted office. The temperature had fallen a bit below freezing, allowing a very light snow to dust the roads—just enough to fill in dips in the asphalt, the black tops still visible. I’d moved from Wyoming, and after spending one-and-a-half winters there, this slight frosting didn’t even register as a concern.

In my tiny western town, the snow began falling in October. The first day of spring marked some of the best cross-country ski conditions I’d ever seen. By April, scrolling Facebook brought me nearly to tears. Everyone back home was posting pictures of flower gardens, vegetable starts, and lazy Saturdays basking in the bright sunshine. But in Wyoming, those days remained as distant as the moon.

Getting away from the six-month winter was part of my reason for moving, but I’d still wanted my three months’ worth. Or two, even? At least one, if I’m begging.

But my last few Southern Appalachian winters have been suspiciously un-winterlike. Statewide in North Carolina, the winter of 2022-2023 was the fourth-warmest on record, resulting in a shocking lack of snow despite higher-than-normal precipitation in the mountains. Our season total came in at a paltry 1.3 inches. One day in late February, the thermometer hit 75 degrees.

All this has led to a curious reversal from my days in Wyoming. Instead of casting longing looks at online pictures of spring flowers and bright sunshine, these days I’ve been more likely to ogle images of snow-covered roofs and white-blanketed mountains. When I check the forecast during the winter months, it’s to root for lower temperatures with a strong forecast of snow—almost always an exercise in disappointment.

So it stands to reason that, when my in-laws proposed an early March family ski trip to Colorado, I was all about it. There would be real snow there! Ski hills without ice! A use for all my dusty winter gear!

It just so happens that while we in the Smokies were spending the winter months running through short-sleeve shirts and leaving our windows open, Colorado’s ski resorts were in the midst of a record snow season. Rolling into the Rockies felt like returning to a dimly remembered dream—one where otherwise craggy mountains appeared soft and rounded, their snowcapped tops alternately shining bright beneath a bluebird sky or hidden under a new wave of clouds, snowflakes flying at our faces. Every surface was buried beneath feet of snow, protected from melting by temperatures that consistently stayed below freezing. Meanwhile, at home the entire month of February had passed without a single high below 32 degrees. Most of the nights stayed above freezing, too.

I’ll spare you a vacation diary about a place thousands of miles away from the ancient Appalachians I call home. Suffice it to say that spending a week skiing world-famous Colorado slopes during a record ski season was as much fun as it sounds—and returning home to the winter that was not was a physical shock.

The morning after my return, I wandered outside—no jacket necessary—and found a pink tulip blooming in the flowerbed along my driveway. I did a double take, momentarily convinced that my sudden immersion in and return from “real winter” had addled my sight. It was March 7, way too early for tulips. But I looked again, and there it was, Easter-pink petals glowing softly in indirect morning light. Its neighbor wasn’t far behind. The swollen bud was ready to burst at the next kiss of sun.

I love the sun, and I love flowers. Years ago, during one of those late winter months in Wyoming that’s the height of spring in the rest of the world, I’d written an entire newspaper column about my longing to see something green and blooming again. If a stranger were to knock on my door with a bouquet of flowers and propose marriage, I wrote, I’d probably say yes. I was only kind of kidding.

But what I’ve come to realize is that I really have no favorite season. I love them all, but I love them in balance—right place, right time, right order. So I admired that tulip, and I took its picture. But I also sighed, wishing for a reality between the feet-deep snowpack of Colorado and this 75-degree “winter” day. Wishing for right-sized seasons.