Tag Archives: winter

Winter’s Tales — Part 1

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For most of our time as a species, winter has been the time to gather by the fire, and tell stories. So who are we to scorn the tradition of millennia? This time, with stories ABOUT our winters. And there’ll be more to come!

1790s – Weeks Away From Home
Imagine yourself as an early White farmer on Mount Washington, between Bath and Hammondsport. You’d cleared your land, and worked like a dog, and gathered into barns, but now – you had to SELL your crop.
So you’d wait till the snow lay deep, load up your sledge with grain, hitch up the horses or the oxen, and set off for Naples, which had the nearest mill.
And it took you weeks to get there, through the snow in a roadless forest. Once you had your grain ground to flour, you could head on home, moving a little faster with your lighter load. As long as the snow held out.

1816 – The Year Without a Summer
The 1815-1816 winter wasn’t especially bad, but it never ended. Snow fell and frost formed every month of the year. The creeks still froze in April, and started again in September. Fruit died on the trees, and crops in the ground. People despaired that the sun was going out, but 1817 brought a normal summer, for the cloud of volcanic dust, undetectable at the time, had settled back to earth.

1880s
One day Lena Curtiss took her young children, Glenn and Rutha, out to Pleasant Valley Cemetery to lay flowers on the grave of the children’s father. But as Glenn stepped down from the wagon Billy the horse lurched forward, throwing Glenn to the ground and running the wagon over his head. The caretaker’s family patched him up and mother rushed him home to Hammondsport, where Grandma took over. She thought. For Ed Garton, the hired man, had promised to take Glenn skating that afternoon, and Glenn proclaimed that rather then being put to bed, he was still going skating. Grandma Curtiss was not a woman to mess with, but her young grandson was already showing some of the daring and determination that would one day make him a millionaire. She fixed Glenn up with a new poultice, he went skating with Ed, and came home no worse than he’d been when he left.

1905 – The Hornellsville Horror
On February 1, ladies from Hornell’s Universalist Church bundled up and set off in two sleighs for Arkport to celebrate a friend’s birthday. Just after dark they headed homeward.
The first sleigh crossed a railroad track safely, but riders realized that an oncoming train was far nearer than they’d thought. They shouted frantically to their following friends, but the horses spooked on the track. The engineer tried to brake, but the Angelica Express slammed into the stalled sleigh. The animals escaped unscathed, while the driver and three women were injured. The other ten women… including Mrs. Graves, whose birthday it was – were killed.

1900s – Not Really
We often hear that old-time auto owners used to fill their radiators with water from Seneca Lake – because Seneca Lake never froze in the winter.
If anybody really did that, of course, they had a sad disappointment coming – physics being what it is. But they were also bucking, or just ignorant of, history! Given the gigantic mass of the water in Seneca… which has the greatest volume of any of he Finger Lakes – Seneca does not freeze over AS OFTEN as the other lakes do. But it does fact freeze some winters, and photos prove it. As far back as the 1800s.

The Treasures of the Snow

Winter… when icicles hang by the wall (Shakespeare)… when earth stands hard as iron, water like a stone (Rosetti)… when it’s lovely weather for a sleigh ride together with you! (Parish)

We know about ice, we know about frost, we know about the cold wind blowing, and here in western New York, we also know about SNOW. We know about lake effect from Lake Erie, and lake effect from Lake Ontario. We know about mountains of snow in Buffalo, Syracuse, Rochester, Ogdensberg. The late Ted Markham told me once that his dad had had the last horse-drawn mail route in New York, because it needed a sleigh in winter.

What do we REALLY know about snow?

Snow is water in delightful frozen forms. It forms in crystals, coalescing around a micro-speck of dirt, dust, soot, radioactive fallout, or what have you. So maybe your mother had something when she told you not to eat the stuff. (Always listen to your mother.)

The crystals form hexagonally, with either six points or six sides. Famously, no two are alike. Wilson “Snowflake” Bentley was so fascinated by them that he begged his Vermont farming parents to buy him a cumbersome glass-plate camera, and spent literally the rest of his life photographing, studying, and admiring these tiny subjects, each of which endured for only a few seconds, and yet was preserved forever.

Snow looks like snow, but most of us are aware that the flakes vary in size. My grandmother in Rhode Island observed that when the flakes suddenly increase in size, it’s usualy a sign that the fall is about to end, and I’ve found her observation true. But besides sizes, they also vary in shape.

Most famously we have our six-pointed star, the snowflake of cartoons and greeting cards and every child’s imagination. They form with radial symmetry, more or less… nothing’s perfect in nature, and as a snowflake falls its environmental conditions change second by second, so irregularity is the order of the day.

But we can also get six-sided plates, or six-sided lobed plates… sometimes with the “star” embedded within. Or, we could get open-ended six-sided columns.

There’s also needle snow, the shape of which is pretty much what it sounds like.

Look closely if things get very slippy underfoot. You may be “enjoying” graupel, sort of a tiny snowball or snow slab. This happens when atmospheric water collects and freezes on the snowflakes as they fall. Layers of graupel are prone to avalanche.

In a very implausible set of conditions, Florida residents in the Palm Beach-Stuart area experienced grapel last month. (It didn’t stick.)

A blizzard is a severe sustained snowfall with high winds. A snow squall is much the same, but of short duration. Either one may produce a whiteout, in which visibility almost instantly goes to almost zero. “No cloud above, no earth below – a universe of sky and snow!” (Whitter)

Winter can also bring freezing rain, when the surface is colder than the sky, or sleet, when rain freezes on the way down.

Our area only caught the edge of the Blizzard of 1888, which dumped four feet of snow on Albany and almost five feet in Saratoga Springs. Over 400 people died. The blizzard of 1978 had much the same footprint, and multiple locations in Rhide Island reported 40 inches of snow, but “only” a hundred people died.

In February of 1940 the Davenport Orphanage girls in Bath had to go to school by sledge for a week, and snow still lay on the ground in April. After a 1958 blizzard, children in Prattsburgh could climb drifts and reach above the telephone wires. Right where we are snow fell and frost formed every month in 1816, “the year without a summer.”

But as long as it’s not excessive, snow can be one of the most lovely experiences North America has to offer. Even if you only watch it through the window, with a warm robe and a good book in hand.

Snow, Cold, and Ice, in Days Gone By

Well… we’ve had some snow this winter, haven’t we? AND some cold, just like we had some extreme cold last year (which, despite all those extreme low temperatures, was STILL the fourth-hottest year ever recorded… so that deep cold does more to PROVE global warming than to DISprove it).

*Anyhow, the point I’m wandering toward is that in the past we’ve had some winters that were memorable, or even historical.

*Last year an ice jam forced the Conhocton River into the streets of Campbell.

*In January 1996 we got snow, then ice, then rain, which meant that the streams and rivers backed up. Badly. Kanona got clobbered especially hard.

*In March of 1993 it snowed on a Saturday, and school reopened on Thursday. People used their windows, rather than doors, to get in and out.

*A three-day blizzard in 1977 dropped as much as a hundred inches of snow in some places. Unsurprisingly the Buffalo area suffered worst, including 23 deaths.

*The winter of 1957-58 saw deep DEEP snow all through the region. Kids in Prattsburgh played on snowdrifts that were so high, the kids could reach above the telephone lines.

*In 1950, snow broke down the Wildcat Hollow Bridge in the Town of Hornby.

*The winter of 1939-40 was the first winter of the Second World War, and it was an extremely snowy season. Snow still lay on the ground in April, parked cars were buried up to the tops of their tires, and the girls at Davenport Orphanage in Bath went to school by sleigh for a week.

*The Great War winter of 1917-18 saw significant snow, and extremely low temperatures, even as people suffered coal and food shortages because of the war.

*Ice jams flooded Painted Post four feet deep in December, 1901, and temperatures were below zero.

*A two-day blizzard in 1890 stopped the trains as well as blocking the roads. Two feet of snow fell.

*In January of 1877, over five feet of snow fell between one thaw and the next. It crushed a church in Corning, wrecking it beyond repair.

*Methodists used to have a church in Curtis, between Campbell and Coopers Plains. Supposedly more Coopers people attended, so one January night in 1860 they went out and stole the church (yes), sliding it downstream along the thick-frozen Conhocton River.

*None of this quite matched 1816, “the year without a summer.” Snow fell and frost formed in every month of the year. Streams around here were still frozen in April, and froze again in October. Crops didn’t grow, or died in the field and on the vine. People feared that the sun was going out, and wondered if the end of the world was upon them. We now know that the sun’s rays were partly blocked by clouds of dust from a huge volcano eruption. The following summer went back to normal, and the world rejoiced.

Snow

Snow is a great thing. It falls so gently, and looks so beautiful. When we have trouble with it, it’s usually because of the wind, not the snow itself.

*The Bible says that God has unlocked the treasures of the snow. Robert Frost wrote about stopping by woods on a snowy evening. Irving Berlin sang of a white Christmas. Mitch Miller (of Rochester!) jollied us all along with choruses of “Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!” All of us have watched it form a winter wonderland.

*Snow falls in beloved, long-remembered picture books: “The Big Snow,” by Berta and Elmer Hader; “Katy and the Big Snow,” by Virginia Lee Burton; “City in Winter,” by Eleanor Shick; “The Snowy Day,” by Ezra Jack Keats.

*Snow comes in many forms, including cylinders and needles. It may fall as the ball-shaped graupel so beloved by skiers (because it’s smooth and slick).

*When most of us think of snow, we think of flakes. Of all the trillions that fall, each one crystallizes into a different shape – no two snowfalkes are alike.

*The man who demonstrated this to most everyone’s satisfaction was Snowflake Bentley, who as a Vermont farm lad begged his parents for a camera… an expense his mother suported, but his father forever resented. Working in the cold, he took thousands of glass-plate images of snowflakes. Naturalist Edwin Way Teale wrote that of all the men of science whose lives had overlapped his own, he most regretted never meeting Snowflake Bentley.

*Sometimes, of course, it’s too much of a good thing. Winter weather disasters can take many forms: deep snow; high winds; low temperatures; ice; flooding from snowmelt and icemelt. We’ve seen them all.

*Snow crushed the roof of Zion African Methodist Episcopal Church on January 25, 1877, wrecking the building, a former Corning schoolhouse, beyond repair. Five feet and four inches of snow had fallen since the last thaw, and country roads were snowbound on every hand.

*On March 11 of 1888, a blizzard got under way — and kept going for fifty hours. Twenty-eight inches of snow fell locally, the mercury hit ten below, the telegraph failed, and the trains were four days late. Despite all that, our area got off fairly easily from the infamous Blizzard of 1888. New York City and New England were paralyzed. Something like 800 people died… plus more on ships at sea. The East River froze. Horses died in their traces. Even out here, it was a very bad storm.

*Folks in the Corning-Campbell area could learn to dread December 17. A two-day blizzard started on that date in 1890, dumping two feet of snow that drifted even higher in strong winds, blocking the roads and stopping the trains. And on that same date in 1901 Painted Post was under four feet of water, even as thermometers plunged to four below, marking a drop of 68 degrees since three days earlier.

*A 1935 ice storm, combined with high winds, broke down trees in Bath’s Pulteney Park (which had already been flooded in July).

*A snowstorm on February 14, 1940, buried parked cars. The girls at Davenport orphanage in Bath went to school by sleigh for a week. Snow was still (or again) on the ground in April.

*On February 16, 1958, we were on the second day of a two-day blizzard that drifted snow as tall as fifteen feet; Prattsburgh children could reach above the telephone wires. Trains hit piles of snow outside the villages, and stopped. Families suffered without medical care and ran low on food waiting days until the roads could be opened again.

*On March 13 in 1993, snow started falling. And it kept on. And on. And on. By 5 PM all the roads were officially closed. Governor Mario Cuomo declared a statewide state of emergency. By the time it ended, folks were coming and going through their windows, rather than doors. The snow fell on Saturday, and school reopened on Thursday. No lives were lost locally in what, at the time, they called the storm of the century. The Emergency Broadcast Network was actually activated for the first time.

*On January 19, 1996 a combination of snow melt, heavy rain, and frozen ground suddenly meant lots of water – everywhere. Kanona, Corning, Campbell, and the whole Route 415 corridor suddenly found itself with way too much water. Roads were blocked, and fields were flooded. Let’s hope for a gentler winter this time!

Off-Season

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Off-season. Winter in western New York. What’s there to do?

*Quite a lot, actually, as long as you don’t mind being low-key – which is sort of what winter is anyway.

*Take a walk in a summer activity space, such as a fairground. See how it’s different… in fact, almost new. It will be quiet. You’ll likely have the place to yourself. Memories will surface, but distances will seem askew. You may notice features you’ve never seen before. Try taking pictures. I once got some very good shots of the snowbound fireman’s fair field in Hammondsport.

*Wander the waterfront. The marina space in Watkins Glen or Canandaigua is a new world off-season. Stroll up and down the docks (assuming they’re ice-free!) and remember what the place was like at the height of summer. Look out for overwintering waterfowl. From Hammondsport waterfront you almost always sees rafts of coots, gulls, and mallards.

*Try out a park. Some are no doubt closed, especially those out in rural areas. But pick your way through the in-town parks of Hammondsport, Bath, Elmira, Corning. What are the fountains like with the water turned off? What trees are slumbering in the parks, and when will they waken?

*Along those lines, we once visited Montezuma National Wildlife Refuge in the dead of winter. We had the place to ourselves, just as though it were our personal game preserve. We could stop whenever and wherever we liked without worrying about backing up traffic, and take all the time we wanted with binoculars gazing across the flats.

*Of course, you can have off-season fun right in your kitchen or living room, if you put out a bird feeder. The bears are still asleep, but by Easter or so we’ll have to take the feeders in, unless we live right in the heart of town. On a daily basis we get red-headed woodpeckers, downy woodpeckers, juncos, goldfinches, white-breasted nuthatches, black-capped chickadees. Out cat likes to watch as much as we do.

*Take an urban or village walk, assuming the sidewalks are clear. Steuben County Historical Society has walking-tour brochures for Bath. Some of our towns have heart-health walking routes.

*Twice in the past month I’ve been out walking on the Keuka Outlet Trail, at the Penn Yan end. In January we saw a bluebird… not our typical winter fare! We also inspected some recent beaver work, and glimpsed a muskrat in the offing.

*On my February trip I enjoyed just getting to know the Outlet area in the quiet and sleep of late winter. Much of the Outlet was frozen, at least until you crossed the footbridge downstream from Main Street, where mallards were huddled, just as they had been a few weeks earlier. Seeing the industrial buildings from beneath at this time of year makes you feel as though you possess arcane knowledge, vouchsafed to only a few.

*Besides heading downstream, I also crossed the hump-backed bridge over the Outlet and passed through the little park, then followed the trail a few hundred yards to its eastern terminus. Along the way I stopped at another bridge, under the trees, to watch the stream picking its way through the ice.

*And I came to he baseball field. Empty, deserted, and covered with snow, looking a little dilapidated, as all such places do at this time of year. But promising warmer days, and happy crowds, and summer sun. Back at the feeder, the goldfinches are starting to show their summer glow. “We are nearer to spring than we were in September.”

Meet the Neighbors: the Great Horned Owl

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As most of us, in this freezing weather, rush from door to car and back again, with flaps and earmuffs and stocking caps jammed over our ears… and especially as we try to get in before dark… we don’t realize the startling drama taking place all around us. It’s mating season for the great horned owl.
Really? Now? In THIS weather!? It seems like slap in the face for Darwin. Scarcely any bird starts in even this early (let alone sooner), and the eggs are laid mighty early too – around here, often starting late in February. That cold sparse time is a mighty risky season in which to lay eggs and hatch out chicks. But all in all, the owls have been pretty successful with it. One thing they stint on, though, is nest building. They often commandeer the nest of an eagle, osprey, blue heron, or large hawk, none of whom actually need it at this time of year.
I spent five years volunteering with the Pennsylvania Atlas of Breeding Birds in the 1980s. With the commonwealth divided into 5000 equal-sized blocks we found the bird in half of them, and detected it as a confirmed or probable breeder in half of those. No doubt there would have been more, save for the inconvenience of the owls being nocturnal.
The great horned owl is “the” owl to most of us. This is the one we see pictures of, the one in cartoons, the one we conjure up in our mind’s eye and our mind’s ear. With those riveting huge eyes and those tufts that look like horns or ears (they’re neither), the great horned owl looks looks almost like a fellow human. One you won’t turn your back on, to be sure.
Even the hoo-hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo call is the stereotypical (or archetypal) sound of the owl.
Great horned owls are big birds. The chord of the wing – basically the cross-section from leading edge to trailing edge – is a foot or more. The span of the wings, though, can be well over four feet. The bird itself’s about two feet long. The span of the talons – on a single foot! – pushes eight inches when fully spread.
All this size is breathtaking, but I’m still amused to remember that lovely description by Kenneth Roberts – “one-fifth head and three-fifths bone, and the rest mostly voice.”
Those talons with their eight-inch spread exert 300 pounds per square inch when they seize something – which means that it stays seized. Their huge eyes give them excellent vision in the dark, and asymmetrically-placed ears help them bi-angulate moving prey.
Their wings are also formed in such a way, and operate in such a manner, as to minimize the sound that they make in flight – a superb adaptation for hunting.
Even so… not long after dark one night I was prowling outside the wooded edge of a quarry when I spotted a great horned owl shifting around high in a tree. I watched it (or at least its silhouette) for as long as I could (while the bird watched me).
At length the bird decided to shove off and sailed over the open field, and over me. I’d been watching the bird for some time. I knew what it was. I watched it coming. And the whoosh of its wings – however quiet they may be – still frightened me. It’s hard to explain, except to say that this is one mighty impressive bird.