Last week, we experienced an unusually heavy (for southern New Mexico) snowfall. The snow began in the morning and lasted most of the day. At our home, we accumulated about three inches, which was more than the frosting that the Organ Mountains received.
The snow was very wet. It was perfect for snowball fights and crafting snowmen. Oddly, the snowmen we saw in our neighborhood looked like they were wearing a layer of fur because of leaves that stuck to them during the rolling process to create their various sections. I wish the storm had come a week or so earlier so all of our grandchildren — who are geographically deprived of much or any snowfall — could have enjoyed it when they were here over the holidays.
Growing up in the mountain community of Ruidoso, I remember lots of heavy snowfall events fondly. As a kid in school, we always hoped it would snow enough to lead to cancellation of school so we could go out and make dangerous runs for our sleds or engage in snowball fights with neighborhood arch enemies. But of course the downside was that in the late spring toward the end of the semester, we would have to make up any snow days on Saturdays. Yuk!
I remember the sound of snow scrunching under my rubber galoshes. I remember making snow ice cream with a little milk, some vanilla and lots of sugar. I remember how much trouble it was to put on all the layers of cold weather clothing our mother thought we needed to play outside during a storm. I remember snow being piled so high in the middle of our main street that you could not see vehicles in the opposite lane. I remember having the exhausting task of shoveling heavy snow accumulations off our outside deck because my father was afraid it would collapse from the weight. And perhaps in a case of revenge, I remember driving my father’s Jeep station wagon out to a paved parking lot and spinning it in endless donuts in the snow.
And I especially remember the quietness during a heavy snowfall. With large fluffy snowflakes falling in the air and muffling many normal ambient sounds, it was strangely quiet. The only exception seemed to be when vehicles that had been chained up to get through the snow would drive nearby and you could hear the constant click, clack, clack sound of the end of the chain slapping against the inside of a fender. The snowfall was usually so heavy that you could not actually see the vehicle making the noise — just the constant clicking telling you it was somewhere nearby.
I also remember how much I enjoyed skiing in heavy snow storms, most memorably one about 20 years ago when my daughter and I rode a slow chairlift together at Ski Apache. It was a very heavy snowfall and we could barely make out the chair in front of us, creating a sense that we were away from the rest of the world inside some kind of white, soft, fluffy cocoon It was a magic moment that I’ll always remember and doubt I’ll ever be able to replicate.
With climate change looming larger every day, I suspect many of my other snow memories won’t be repeated either. (Not that I’d actually want to eat snow ice cream again.)
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