Winter Whiplash

The calendar said the Christmas season had begun, but it sure didn’t feel like it. My winter coats and knit hats mostly lay where I’d left them at the start of spring, the mercury remaining unnaturally high as December wore on.

We went through all the rituals. My husband and I walked downtown for the annual Christmas Parade, wearing only light jackets to insulate us from air not forecast to fall below freezing. We took our 13-year-old friend down to Asheville for the post-pandemic return of a favorite tradition, the Winter Lights show. The temperature had hit a high of 70 that day—the lights were pretty, but sweaters and hot chocolate didn’t sound as appealing as they usually would in mid-December. On the first Saturday of the month, we dressed up and met some friends to see our hometown band, Balsam Range, perform their yearly Art of Music show at Lake Junaluska. Temperatures had reached 73 that afternoon. Most of the night, my winter coat stayed folded over my arm.

The only time that month we found a semblance of climatic normalcy was when we drove high on the Blue Ridge Parkway and hiked a shadowed piece of the Mountains-to-Sea Trail. A shallow puddle of water had frozen on the path, wavy lines of white ice curving like frozen waves. Nearby, a bank of icicles decorated a rocky outcrop.

If I were to assume myself the center of the universe, I might have concluded that all this was preparation for a forthcoming first in my life: Christmas in Florida. It was my in-laws’ turn to host Christmas, and though I’d be lying if I said family, food and warm beaches didn’t sound like a winning combination, something still felt wrong about celebrating amid winter wonderland-themed decorations in a place that barely knew what snow was.

It was sunny and 75 the entire trip. We opened presents, baked cookies, drank copious amounts of hot coffee, and wore cozier-than-necessary pajamas. We also waded in the ocean, swung golf clubs, and donned shorts and t-shirts for a drive to see the overwintering manatees. Though wonderful in its own right, it was a strange way to spend Christmas.

Back home, though, things weren’t terribly normal either. Christmas Day was 71 degrees in Asheville, more than 20 degrees above the typical high. I’m not one to complain about sunny and 70, but on Christmas?

Then January came and gave us all whiplash.

We were only three days in when we got our first real snow of the season, a dusting that swept the town clean and painted the mountains ringing it a pure white. The higher elevations got enough snow that remnants hung around five days later, when my husband and I found a few minutes to venture up the Parkway for a weekend hike.

A week later, the real snow arrived—down in town, more than eight inches over two days. I don’t know how much the higher elevations got, but I’d estimate a boatload or so.

It was cold and wet, but even shoveling the snow from my driveway, I was in heaven. My parents happened to be in town that weekend—we took a long walk to explore the transformed downtown and then came back to the house for that now-marvelous hot chocolate, a heated house, and pizza. After they headed home, I loaded my cross-country skis in the car and motored up to the Blue Ridge Parkway, breaking trail through a thick layer of new snow, every harsh edge of the impossibly pristine forest softened by a powerful beauty. The next weekend, there was still enough left to enjoy a repeat underneath a bluebird sky.

In a few short months, I would, along with the rest of the region, celebrate the arrival of spring and bemoan the unwelcome descent of a late-season frost, but I don’t think that makes me a hypocrite. Each season has its own part to play in the natural order of things, and though most of the year nothing is more welcome than a warm, sunny day, in the winter I’d prefer the snow, please. I’d rather follow the map than hang on for a sudden u-turn. Nobody likes whiplash.