In mid-December, there’s finally been a snowfall in southern New Hampshire just heavy enough to put a base on the trails. It’s late fall, and winter is impatient to elbow its way in. This morning I spent an hour at Mine Falls Park in Nashua enjoying the crunch of snow beneath my sneaker-clad feet. The canal is almost-but-not-quite frozen over, and the muskrats have taken refuge wherever muskrats like to go.

Sometimes the season’s first snow pounds us. The Halloween Eve snowstorm in 2011 dumped a foot of heavy wet snow, uprooted countless oaks & maples, and left me without electricity for four days. Other years are more like this one, with a couple of tentative snowfalls, just to get us ready for the inevitable big ones.

I can pull my snowshoes out of their little nook in the basement and put them closer to the door.  I can look forward to hiking on those brilliant cloudless days that follow snowstorms. My favorite cross-country ski area has announced that it’ll be open for business this weekend, which means that their snowshoe trails are ready to go as well. A prime memory for me is a midweek trip there a few years ago, the day or two after a storm. There were a few skiers around, but I was the only snowshoer in sight, and I had all that wonderful powder to myself on the woods trails. Solitude, beauty, sunshine, and unbroken powder: does it get any better in the winter?

When the Olympics are broadcast shortly, I will ooh and ahh over the alpine skiers. I’ll cheer for the cross-country skiers, who are better-conditioned than most of us could ever hope to be. I’ll watch the snowboarding, which for my money is the most fun event to watch at the Olympics. But eventually, I’ll tire of being a spectator. The snowshoes will be right by the basement door, waiting for me.