Since moving away from Central New York thirteen years ago, I have not had occasion to strap on my snowshoes even once. As I write this, there is no snow on the ground in New Haven and we really have not had any snow to speak of this season. While I don’t miss the chore of clearing the driveway, I do miss the beauty and silence of really deep snow; country roads that are smoother and wider in winter after the plow goes through than they are in the summer; kicking down a steep, powdery slope in six-foot strides, all the way to the bottom in seconds instead of slowly and awkwardly clambering down the same slope one gingerly foothold at a time through summer’s brambles; the challenge of clearing the driveway and the parking area in front of the old barn with Gerald, Our Ford
and a backblade, spending hours twisted around on a metal seat, pushing snow in reverse gear; warming up by the woodstove afterward with a cup of hot chocolate made from scratch. Ah, youth!
If you are free to pick the place you live based on the sort of natural disaster it’s most prone to, snow country
seems more benign than tornado, hurricane, flood, forest fire, mudslide, volcano, or earthquake country. But that’s just my opinion, and you are certainly entitled to your own.