Connections: Frozen

Why is sunlight on a landscape of untrammeled snow more exhilarating than bright sun on the beach or through the woods? I wonder what scientists have to say about the ways visual experiences evoke emotions. 

I’ve been fed up, like everyone else I know, with our unrelenting winter weather, but a surge of happiness came over me by surprise recently when, outside on a clear day, I found myself and my surroundings bathed in sunlight. Was the feeling enhanced by the fact that sunny afternoons when the ground is thoroughly covered with snow are rare here (while the familiarity of gray skies breeds contempt)?

Does too much of a good thing, like perfect summer weather day after day, diminish the sense of pleasure even for committed beachgoers? I don’t think kids take unusually good sledding conditions for granted even when they have been out having fun for several days in a row.

As a young woman learning to ski, after I had finally learned to control my descents with stem christies, which aren’t taught anymore, I discovered that spring skiing was wonderful. Clear air and sunlight had more to do with how much I enjoyed it, I think, rather than any accomplishment.

I was reminded of that sensation last weekend.

Saturday was an almost-warm, sunny day; the temperature had skyrocketed up to double digits. It would be an understatement to say I am not apt to go skiing again, regardless of spring weather. Nor am I likely to experience the joy of skating across smooth ice again, its being so long since I gave it a try. A friend had told me the day before that he was going to get out on snowshoes. Slightly jealous, although I had never tried snowshoeing, I huddled on my bed under a nice, cozy, mohair throw.    

But with the light of the bright snow and sun flooding in through the bedroom windows, I remembered that my son David had said he was going to take the older of our two iceboats out. No one in our family had gone iceboating for a few years, and the lure was strong. Even though I had been only a passenger rather than at the helm of an iceboat in winters’ past, I had shared the old-fashioned thrill iceboating provided. Come on, I said to my husband, let’s go for a drive to see what’s happening.

There they were: David and the antique batwing, as the ancient wooden vessel is known, on Mecox Bay. A few of the modern, racing variety called DNs were pulled up nearby, and in the distance, off Flying Point Road, the sails of nine others could be seen going back and forth.

Asked if I would like a spin, I pulled a pair of goggles over the hood of my coat, and slithered, belly down, onto the  boat. I promised myself there and then that I would stop complaining about the weather, no matter how cold it got.

Grinning from ear to ear when I stepped back on land, I was about to say the ride had made my day. But I caught myself. Thinking the better of it: “It made my winter!” I said. And it did.