Three ways to warm to next snow

It's over, Richmond. Winter has left the building. The heavenly bounty of a week ago is no more. If there are any forlorn patches of snow still clinging to life in the region, they soon will be puddles. It was fun while it lasted, though, wasn't it?

Tell the truth. You liked it. I know I did.

I'm Northern-born, and thus of the mind that spring is earned and appreciated only when it follows at least a mildly trying winter. This winter has been cold, it seems to me, and now we've had a respectable snow. That's really all I can ask for.

I'm not the insufferable kind of Northerner who will lecture Richmonders about their response to cold temperatures and wintry precipitation. By all means, run panicked to Ukrop's. Join the hundreds of people in 80's-era, pastel snowsuits watching their kids turn the sledding hill at Forest Hill Park into a mud luge. Have a snowball fight. Celebrate yellow snow.

But, as someone who has long cultivated a healthy appreciation for all things winter, allow me to make a few additional suggestions for the next time Old Man Winter shakes his dandruff on us. It could be next year; it could be another seven years before we see another snow like last week's. But whenever it happens, these suggestions will help you transcend the usual Richmond snow routine.

Go out at night. It had been snowing for a few hours last Sunday night when I ventured downtown to pick up my wife from work. There was already an inch or more on the ground, and the low-ceiling effect of the snowy sky trapped the lights of the city, creating a pink-orange dome over Richmond.

That specific color and light quality are unique to cities during snowstorms. It was bright enough to walk the streets reading a book at 10 p.m. Next time it snows, grab the dog, husband, wife or anyone who will go with you and take a night walk. This is one advantage city-dwellers have over country folk. Don't miss out on it.

First light. Get up first thing in the morning the day after it snows. Yes, you'll lose some sleep; you can catch up during the next five winters when it doesn't snow. Get up and see the woods and waters, the wild places near you. Snowfall's greatest magic act is turning a world so familiar into one so alien. While you slept, the places you know intimately - the trails you run, your commuting route, your back yard - were transformed. The same is true of our urban wildernesses.

On Monday morning, my wife and I leashed up the dogs and went down to the James River Park. This is a place we visit almost every day, but we felt like pilgrims at Plymouth Rock. The dogs ran around half crazed in this foreign landscape, smelling everything, digging at the snow, searching for signs of the old world.

Dogs and children sense the wonder in snowfall innately and maybe most intensely. It's a visceral marvel for them. The coldness of snow to touch. The whoosh of a sled run. It's unexplained. A tangible miracle.

Songbirds were quiet on our walk toward the Nickel Bridge. We hiked for an hour and didn't see a single squirrel. Their world had changed overnight, too. Maybe they were holed up somewhere taking stock, trying to figure out where their next meal would come from.

Make tracks. Would you be a bad parent if you denied your kid a once-in-every-five-years chance to sled? Yes, you would. So indulge, but not for too long. When they start complaining about their cold hands, dip their fingers in a steaming mug of hot chocolate and tell them to buck up. You're going to Pocahontas.

Why Pocahontas? Because at close to 8,000 acres, the Chesterfield County state park offers endless snowy solitude after a storm. If there is one opportunity that shouldn't be missed when it snows, it's the chance to cut fresh tracks in virgin powder. Take a picnic lunch and make a day of it.

The Tuesday after this snow, my wife and I and our two dogs and a friend and his two dogs headed to Pocahontas. There was one other car in the parking lot when we got there. We hiked for a couple of hours on the trails south of Swift Creek Lake, at one point flushing three whitetail deer (two bucks and a doe).

By midafternoon, we had worked up a hearty appetite trudging through the drifts. So we brushed the snow off a few downed trees, fired up the camp stove and had some chili for lunch. The sun was out; the trees were draped in snow; and we just sat there, passing the chili pot back and forth, admiring our new world.

Contact Andy Thompson at

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