Growing up in Washington state, I was fascinated by snow and ice. My brothers and I would check the ice on the nearby pond for weeks, wondering when we would be able to venture out for icy shenanigans. Our earliest forays would often lead to a cacophony of cracking ice followed by screams as we raced inside to remove dampened shoes and socks. We never had ice skates because the pond would only really be frozen enough to walk on for a few days: if at all. Snow days were few and far between- and could be triggered by as little as 2 inches of snow. As a family we would drive to the nearby mountains to get our snow fix- but the falling snow somehow feels less magical when you’ve traveled just to see it.
When I first got here in November, native New Hampshirites did their best to warn me about the cold of winter but apparently failed to convince me. A fact made evident by my thought that I could survive the winter with my breathable (read: not waterproof) summer hiking boots. It took only the first snowstorm for me to go running to the closest outdoor store to get some hardy snow boots.
In many ways I have become accustomed to the New Hampshire winter; when my parents ask how cold it is I always say “not too bad”- even after hiking on a day with -5°C wind chill, I regularly order iced coffee even during snow storms, and have gotten much better at dressing for the weather (to the extent that I will probably have difficulty transitioning back to only wearing one pair of pants come spring). I am still in awe of the shape of snowflakes: just as intricate as the ones I cut out of paper as a child. I sent a picture to my parents who were equally shocked about the macroscopic crystalline structures- we had always thought that a snowflake needed to be viewed under a microscope to be recognizable. A quick google search later, I found out that where I grew up, snow comes down in big clumps due to corridors of warmer air heating the precipitation as it falls.
Ice skating on the west coast is close to non-existent. Around New Years, several rinks pop up in the city squares where you wait in line for a 2 hour slot to skate elbow-to-elbow and get glared at if you try to spin. Even so, I had always felt an affinity for the sport and my fanciful musings of moving to New Hampshire involved me doing perfect figure 8s on a smooth stretch of lake ice: A dream I had concocted from a mixture of Prairie Home Companion Stories, Little House on the Prairie, and Schoolhouse Rock. It seemed too good to be true, so when I saw rows of skates at the local thrift store and learned of the nearby lake rink I was ecstatic!
Our first trip to the rink was perfect: I practiced my figure 8s and even started working on spins (There are a few things that are impossible for me not to talk about: being vegetarian, doing yoga, and (apparently) learning to be incredible at ice skating). As night fell, we skated out onto the small track across the lake with a headlamp. Halfway through we decided to turn off the lamp and let our eyes adjust to the light of the stars and moon reflecting off the snow. Even though it was cold and my legs hurt from rediscovering a sport I had done only a handful of times, I felt as though I was absolutely flying: the fastest skater known to humankind. The sound of the skates gliding across the ice was unbelievably invigorating and I spent the rest of the night smiling to myself.
Pacific Northwest native Cecilia is a figure skating pro. If you see her out tearing up the ice, she’d love to strike up a conversation about Michael Pollan. Learn more about Cecilia here!