At night, I can walk a mile or more and hardly see a vehicle, let alone another human being. Morning snow in Weston, Mass., falls on tree branches that seem to echo snowflakes' microscopic patterns. Our greetings are briefer but heartier than in summer, not wasting any breath in the frigid atmosphere, but nevertheless acknowledging a mutual willingness to meet the unique challenges of this time of year. I drive a few miles to a nearby state park. The highway's clear, but the landscape is deep in snow.
Trees float along the horizon in a dark band between pale sky and sparkling white fields.
It's a bit disorienting, like a picture turned upside down, or a reflection that could dissolve at any moment. Except for the lodge, the state park is almost deserted. But the roads are plowed, and I can drive to the trailheads. I pick a favorite trail, park my car, and pull on snow boots. The trail angles left, downhill, comes up over a rise, then plunges more steeply.