From Snow Pants to Snow Words
By Elle Andra-Warner
While growing up in snow country, I did my share of making snow angels and snow forts. But what I particularly remember about winter’s snow and cold was as a teenager walking to high school in bulky snow pants and once there, following the now archaic school rules that girls could only wear skirts or dresses. No jeans or long pants were allowed for girls. That meant going to the girls’ washroom to take off the snow pants so we could wear skirts or dresses before we could attend classes. Even in the bitter cold, it meant hiking up the skirts/dress to take off or put on those snow pants to walk (for me) about a mile, from Munro Street to Lakeview High School.
Back in those days, there were no snow days and no school buses unless you lived miles out in the country. So, if your family didn’t have a car or the family car wasn’t available and there was no bus route close to your high school, it was expected that us girls, no matter how cold it was outside, would put on those snow pants and walk to/from school, and once there, only wear skirts or dresses. Historical ancient trivia now, but at the time, the snow scenario of cold mile-long walks to school was not trivial.
However, speaking of trivia, did you know that some languages have multiple words for snow? The Alltracks Academy has compiled a list of the top five languages with the most words to describe snow. Surprisingly, in first place is the Scottish language with 421 snow-related words. According to Scotland’s University of Glasgow, they include snees (to begin to snow or rain); skelf (large snowflake); spitters (small drops or flakes of wind-driven rain or snow); flindrikin (slight snow shower); feefle (to swirl, like snow rounding a corner) and 416 more.
“The number and variety of words in the language show how important it was for our ancestors to communicate about the weather, which could so easily affect their livelihoods” explained Dr. Susan Rennie, English and Scot lecturer at Glasgow in a news article. “Weather has been a vital part of people’s lives in Scotland for centuries.”
The second spot is Saami (aka Sami) language, spoken in northern regions of Scandinavia and Russia. A 2016 research paper from Norway’s Tromsø University identified 170-180 Saami words about snow—words like vahtsa (little fresh snow); ridne (snow in trees); and habllek (dry and light dusting snow).
The third spot goes to Inuit language with 40-70 words, like qanir (to snow); nataryuk (fresh snow); and kanevvluk (fine snow). Fourth is Icelandic with 46 words including fukt (small amount of snow) and mjöll (freshly fallen snow). And fifth goes to Swedish with 25 words, including blötsnöm (wet, slushy snow), and nysnö (fresh snow, crisp and white).
My favourite non-English word for snow? The soft-sounding lumi (l-uh-mee) found in both Finnish and Estonian languages.
I Live in Winter
By Jennifer Janasie
Each day during my first Minnesota winter was an adventure. My husband Stephen and I had recently moved to an area where the big woods, big rivers ecological province abuts the prairies and potholes region, during a cold record breaking and snowy year 12 winters ago. After our self-imposed one and a half mile walk to work through a wooded blanket of snow or geologic layered cake of snow and ice, we would part ways with a kiss through face masks donning ice crystals. From time-to-time, I would even find a full-length, rock-solid icicle dangling from Stephen’s bearded, warmly covered chin. What a kiss goodbye I was privileged enough to receive those mornings!
Every day during our first Minnesota winter was an awesome exploration into newness. Take the “giant dog days,” for instance. My officemate had informed me when winter started hitting hard, that her weather reporter friend in North Dakota rated days according to how large an animal the wind could pick up. Buffalo days were days in which you really wouldn’t want to walk anywhere, for fear I imagined, that you would be flung into a winter version of Dorothy’s tornado-propelled flight to Oz (with buffalos replacing the poultry you might expect to see flying in the air beside you).
I discovered what a giant dog day felt like while simultaneously seeing for the first time since Stephen and I had married, that he too was capable of succumbing to such a fit of laughter I had previously only witnessed in childhood. Arising from my mother on family road trips, her delirious laughter would emerge after we had all been in the family van together for 24 hours on little sleep. Mom’s laughter would come like clock-work as an additional yet unintentional helping hand that kept Dad awake during his driving through the night (in addition to Hershey bars and coffees).
On the giant dog day, instead of walking our 125-pound Newfoundland Maxine to the prairie per the usual routine, I walked her all in all two steps before the wind took me, blowing me onto my knees in the snow. We both weighed the same, and Maxine’s fur tousled in the wind as a warning. The initially lovely-looking ice crystals began pelting my face like fairy-crafted daggers, and I had never before seen such a look of horror and confusion on our dog’s face. All I could hear beyond the howling wind was the sound of Stephen’s hysterical laughter. Perhaps to Maxine’s dismay, I laughed along too—down in the snow until I managed to navigate my way inside against the wind (with doggie in tow and Stephen at our side to assist should the wind take us again).
Escapades like this abounded, like in weeks when I asked my husband for a second time before gearing up, “How cold will it be? Tell me with the wind chill, please, always?” I would ask twice because before our move to Minnesota, I was truly unaware I could exist happily in a world where “-50 degrees with the wind chill” was ever an answer.
All Minnesota winter days were fodder for fun! Until my car wouldn’t start numerous times in a week and we got stranded; until I lost my Yaktrax in the snow because I couldn’t see beyond my iced-over glasses. Every day was a thrill! Until I had to drive two hours to a meeting while continuously scraping the ice from the inside of my car windows; until the bottom of my hiking boot mysteriously fell off from the impact of the cold.
Sarcasm aside, each day that first winter was genuinely an amazing journey. That was so for me then, and it still rings true for me now in the Northwoods, Great Lakes ecological area. Despite struggles winter sometimes brings, the first time I set my gaze on a horizon-framed river at winter daybreak with my view expanding in broad bands of purples and blues that set a canvas for the still-full moon as it began to cross paths with the waking sun, it was love at first sight. When one day I stopped mid-bridge to join a cheerful character who had abandoned his bike to take in a breathtaking winter sunset, I knew I had made a friend for life among kin.
So I live in winter. And pondering the poetic not-quite silent sound of falling snowflakes, I find peace.
Snow Stories: One to Remember
By Michelle Miller
The winter of 1975 was a year most Minnesota children dream of—snow, snow, and more snow. School and most businesses were shut down as foot after foot of snow fell over several days. Once the wind and cold dissipated, the snowdrifts left behind were massive.
My childhood home was several miles out of town in a small rural community in central Minnesota. Our home was built into a hillside, with the garage several feet off the ground in the front and just a foot or two in the back. This storm covered our front yard and buried the garage. The details are a bit foggy, as I was only 8 years old at the time, but I do recall being snow bound at home for almost a week.
Once the weather conditions were safe, relatively speaking, it was time to go out and embrace what Mother Nature had left us. The heavy, drifting snow set the stage for a perfect fort-building adventure. My siblings and I were a well-seasoned crew in proper outdoor winter gear, so we bundled up in many layers to venture out into the drifts. Snow forts were our specialty, and we got to work to create another masterpiece, each knowing what our individual role was in this process.
My older sister was the master of tunneling and would chip away with amazing agility and speed, cutting through the deep, packed snow with her hands, downed with tough chopper gloves. My job was to clean out and remove the discarded snow loosened by her efforts, leaving the piles outside the chiseled hole. My younger brother would then use a shovel to move the piles away from the fort.
Eventually, we were all working inside the snow drift, creating a full system of tunnels, small rooms, and multiple exits. Hours would go by, and the deeper we got, the layers of outdoor clothing would be removed as it got quite cozy inside the snow-packed structure. As each room of the fort was completed, we would take a break and sit to admire our work.
Thinking about it now, it really was quite impressive. Some rooms would accommodate up to four of us with a good foot of headroom. It did take a bit of scooting to get turned around and crawl back out, but it was fun. The memory of warm cheeks, silly conversation, and the sense of pride in our accomplishment still makes me smile.
It’s been 50 years since that winter, and when I return to those days, I still think of using that space as our own secret retreat, enjoying the seclusion. It was so quiet, just the crinkling of our snow pants and the squeak of our rubber boots, while we imagined we were on some faraway important excursion. I don’t remember how long it took for the fort to melt and begin to collapse, but I think back to that winter as one of the best snowstorms ever.
Snow Day Memories
By Dana Johnson
Born during the coldest part of the year, I’ve always considered myself a snow baby. I grew up in Grand Marais, and in the wintertime, I couldn’t wait to get home from school so I could build snow forts with neighborhood friends until long after dark. Those rare snow days when school was canceled were always celebrated outside.
My best friend Kristi Silence and I would often get together and go on adventures, and still do to this day. I have great memories of us making quinzee snow huts, creating tunnels through the snow, making snow people, and going skating and sledding with our friends.
One sunny, snowy day when we were young adults, Kristi and I drove down to Passion Pit beach. The parking area was covered with a blanket of white, but we decided to test our luck and ventured in. It wasn’t long before tires were spinning and we were completely stuck! Since we were already there, we enjoyed a walk along the beautiful glistening shoreline before calling my dad to rescue us.
Snow can be absolutely magical, especially to a young mind. I remember waking up one morning as a kid looking out at nearly 2 feet of fresh snow. I marveled at how it clung heavily to the branches of the big cedar trees by the house, and cars were nearly hidden in a thick layer of powder. I don’t know how we got the porch door open.
Snowshoeing may be my favorite winter activity, and it’s extra fun when there’s deep snow in the woods and you can make your own path to new places. I love looking for animal tracks and considering how different creatures survive our harsh winters in the boreal forest.
Not so long ago our ancestors were huddling around a fire for warmth, talking about how days were lengthening while they ate dried venison and dreamed of summer’s bounty. Though we now live in a modern world full of technology and improvements, it’s humbling to know that a snowstorm can easily bring us back to simpler times when the power goes out.
Those of us raised with Northern Wilds winters are a different breed. Snow teaches you patience, strength, and survival skills, but also how to find beauty in the cold. We have to slow down to stay safe, spend time bundling up to stay warm, and learn to stand resilient against the wind. We understand the value of a good neighbor, and the joy of a friendly snowball fight.
The busy buzz of summer is still months away, so we might as well practice hygge and get cozy with a warm beverage and converse about the weather while we wait.
Snow Day in Norway
By Chris Pascone
As a teacher assistant in the Superior public schools, I’m always pumped for a snow day. For me they’re reverberations of my youth growing up in rural Massachusetts, where we’d often get a few snowstorms each winter. Unplanned snow days are triple-nice for me now, as I can share them with my three school-age daughters (if Superior and Duluth public schools’ decisions coincide—not always the case).
This early January our whole family got to experience a new kind of snow day for us—in a foreign country. OK, none of us were in school. We were on vacation in Oppdal, Norway. But the pleasure of a day filled with heavy snow and no obligations was the same. We were together, with free time and 18 inches of fresh snow for us to play in. First, we shoveled the driveway as a team, then we alpine skied in deep powder all afternoon. And yet there was more to come.
Towards evening the idea struck me—this was our chance to build a Norwegian quinzhee. We’ve built igloos and quinzhees before on snow days. You could call it our family snow day tradition. I just wasn’t expecting to build one on vacation.
A quinzhee is similar to an igloo, except that the living space is hollowed out of piled snow, instead of built out of blocks. All the necessary factors coincided: endless snow, a wide-open space in our friends’ yard, and having the time to commit to a proper build. When my Norwegian friend Jon Erik brought me an aluminum mountaineering shovel (essential for carving out the inside of the quinzhee), the build was on.
Quinzhees aren’t fast to make. First, it takes a lot of shoveling to amass an 8-foot-tall snow mound. I like to shoot for a pile taller than me, and wide enough for several people to sleep in. Then you wait overnight for the snow to compress and congeal.
With just two days left on our trip in Oppdal, my daughter Stella and I started the carving process the following morning. The hardest part is hauling all the snow out through the narrow, short door of the cave as you hollow it out.
We worked twice a day on carving our quinzhee, and finished our masterpiece on our last evening. We fit two families inside for the ceremonial goodbye from fairy-tale Oppdal.
This piece of snowy housing will hopefully spend the rest of the winter in our friends’ yard for their kids to play in. For Stella and me, it was an unforgettable snow day experience abroad.
