It’s still in winter in Zone 4.
Granted, it’s late winter.
Temperatures average a bit higher. I hear birds singing once again. And underneath the snow, I suspect the daffodils prepare to break dormancy.
But in most years - this year being one of them - late winter means more snow, not less. Here’s how our fields looked Saturday during our most recent snowstorm.
And another Nor’easter is predicted to hit us hard this evening. In fact as I write this, the storm has started.
Late winter snow isn’t like snow earlier in the season. The snow seems wetter, heavier and just seems to come down faster. Some years, we have storms that drop 2-3 feet at once. We often lose power from all the downed branches
Old timers call this late winter snow “sugar snow.” I’ve always heard that when it’s a “sugar snow” year, the maple syrup is better.
I’ve never known the history of the term “sugar snow” or whether its reported effects on maple syrup production are real. So this morning, I looked it up
Surprisingly, sugar snow appears to have 2 meanings.
First, “sugar snow” can be the colloquial name for “depth hoar” - a scientific phenomena referring to specifically-shaped sugar crystals found at the bottom of snow packs.
Alaskan Native Knowledge Network explains it this way:
Sugar Snow: The common name for depth hoar, the large, cup-shaped crystals that form in the bottom layers of a snow pack
Surprisingly, I’d heard of depth hoar before and had correctly understood it to be the layer in the snowpack that holds a more consistent and warmer temperature than the snow surface.
Non-hibernating animals find winter shelter in depth hoar. I’ve seen this first-hand in our fields. And I’ve long suspected this layer explains why our tree peonies experience comparatively less winter die off, despite our frigid Zone 4 winters.
But this scientific definition is not how I’ve heard Upstate folks talk about sugar snow. To us, it’s the stuff falling during March and April - not the stuff buried deep underneath.
I found ample evidence of this 2nd sugar snow definition as well. Modern references from scientists confirming that, yes, these late heavy snows provide additional moisture to the sugar maples, which in turn boosts sap and therefor syrup production. I also found an 1864 Glens Falls, NY newspaper article, referencing an April sugar snow casually. As if everyone already knew the term - because they probably did.
Sugar snow can be a little hard to handle some years. By March we’ve generally already had permanent snow cover for about 3 months. I’m eager for glimpses of green, not more snow-filled skies and landscapes. Sometimes, when it falls, I know I should be grateful but instead I’m - well - pretty over it.
Not to mention that on a practical level, the sheer amount of sugar snow can make life difficult sometimes.
Each year in March our beloved livestock dog, Cutie, finds a way to get out of her 4 acre fenced enclosure. We’ve tried everything. We have a permanent 3.5 foot no climb fence. With an electrified wire above that. And in a large section where the snowdrifts regularly build, we added a section of electrified 4 foot fence on top of that.
But at this time of year the snow just builds up too quickly and we‘re never able to accurately predict where the next snow drift might form. Last night, undoubtedly motivated to protect every corner of her farm, she once again escaped and narrowly missed getting hit by a car.
After 2 harrowing hours chasing her down - a kind stranger helping, my mom helping - I’m deeply relieved to say Cutie now safely naps on the rug next to me. Blissfully unaware that all of us probably aged an entire year in the span of those 2 hours.
We’ve decided - until this snow melts and for every March going forward - she’ll remain confined to our house. (For the record, she HATES this). And during that time we’ll just have to confine our livestock too. (They also hate this). But we’d rather everyone survive the month of March, even if they must do so resentfully.
During sugar snow season, I oft think of my Grandmother - Catherine Widrick Lyndaker.
When she was 19 years old, married the year before and pregnant with her first child, she, my grandfather and a crew of men moved out to a North Country “sugar bush” in the late winter. The men tapped the trees, gathered the sap and boiled it. My pregnant grandmother cooked 3 meals/day for the men while also helping boil sap.
In the middle of all that, I wonder how Grandma felt about sugar snow? Had I been in her shoes, I imagine my feelings would have been complicated. On one hand, I’d have welcomed the prospect of extra syrup to sell. But undoubtedly I’d also have wondered how on earth to handle the additional workload of processing that extra sap.
(But then again, after visiting my Uncle Elmers’s sugar bush, seeing the sheer amount of work and how the entire process took place in pretty brutal conditions - I was the 7-year old who vowed she would never make maple syrup. Ever. Even if that condemned the Lyndaker maple syrup tradition to die with me. So there’s that).
But somehow, despite my aversion to maple syrup making, despite a livestock dog who escapes fences faster than we can reinforce them, I’m developing a kind of love for sugar snow.
I love that we have a specific name for what’s happening outside my window as I write.
I love that our local ecosystem, including the peonies in our fields, rely on this phenomena.
I love that we can measure the effects of this snow via scientific, quantifiable increases in maple syrup yields.
And I’m learning to wait for the green I crave because, if this snow falls, the plants bringing so much joy in the growing season are the better off for it
So I’m challenging myself to seek out ways to mark this beautiful, tough month.
I’m spending lots of time in my basement grow room. Starting thousands of plugs to be planted in our cut flower fields. Propagating willows. Taking dahlia cuttings. There’s something uniquely calming about working with lush growing things on the inside of my house while looking at this view outside my house
And with the a Nor’easter now blowing in, I’ve decided to make “Wax On Snow” for the kids.
For those NOT from Lewis County NY, “Wax on Snow” is maple syrup, boiled until it’s thick, then poured over freshly fallen snow. The cold snow turns the syrup into a sticky caramel, thick enough to scoop out of the snow’s surface with a fork.
It’s sweet, chewy and unexpectedly creamy. And because a bit of snow inevitably sticks to your fork when you pull out the the maple caramel, it’s also oddly refreshing.
My mom and I made Wax on Snow earlier this week and recorded this audio diary. For those \who still have snow, why don’t you listen along and make some with us?
Or if recipes are more your style, I found this lovely, detailed post from a syrup producer right in my family’s home village of Croghan, NY.
Spring will come dear ones. Maybe your part of the world is there already.
We’re not.
But in the meantime, perhaps I can content myself with the green shoots popping up in my grow room, the sweet taste of sticky maple caramel and some cuddles from our fence-jumping dog, resting right here on the rug.