Essay explores subtle signs of life in New Hampshire’s frozen landscape

On the cold morning of January 9, New Hampshire Public Radio’s “Something Wild” program aired an essay by naturalist Dave Anderson reflecting on the peculiar beauty of early winter. Short days and long nights mark the season, Anderson wrote, describing a “nadir” of sunlight that forces people indoors and into themselves. Yet he urged listeners to notice how the sun rises a minute earlier every other day and sets slightly later, lengthening evenings with each passing week. While the ground is barren and wind chills bite, he sees glimpses of resilience in the landscape. The family sugarhouse, dark and cluttered with tools, sits silent in the frozen woods. In a few weeks, it will awaken to boil maple sap, producing the lightest grade of syrup called “golden delicate.”

Across the frozen road, plastic tarps flutter over brush piles made of hemlock branches and logs; inside, small birds roost at night, huddling against the cold. Anderson observes that cords of maple, oak and ash are neatly stacked in the woodshed, storing summer sunlight as warmth for the farmhouse. Even deep in winter, this “banked carbon” feeds fires that keep people warm. In the predawn gloom, he watches hardy species—chickadees, nuthatches, titmice, juncos and goldfinches—dart to feeders hung from the porch. Goldfinches have yet to turn their bright summer yellow, and juncos remain dark, but they persist through frost. The first chickadee song of the year—two clear whistles—cuts through the silence, followed by the drumming of woodpeckers on suet feeders. Beneath them, winter bluebirds glean fallen crumbs.

Finding renewal in the depths of winter

Anderson’s essay urges readers to recognise these small moments as kernels of spring in the dead of winter. The sugarhouse “sleeps,” but sap will run soon; birds respond to the lengthening day despite frigid temperatures; the sun’s angle shifts, casting rose‑pink hues across purple‑gray dawns. He notes that late January sunsets arrive minutes later, offering commuters a glimmer of light at the end of the workday. There is hope, he insists, in noticing subtle changes: a chickadee’s song, a woodpecker’s cadence, a bluebird’s presence. Such observations remind us that seasons turn and life endures. The essay also highlights the partnership behind “Something Wild,” produced by the Society for the Protection of New Hampshire Forests, NH Audubon and NHPR, underscoring the importance of local media and conservation groups in connecting people to nature.

In a world where headlines often amplify crisis, Anderson’s reflection offers a different kind of news—an invitation to slow down and look closely at the natural world. By paying attention to small details, listeners can find comfort and perspective. The piece resonates beyond New Hampshire; anyone living through a northern winter can relate to the longing for light and the surprise of an early birdsong. Anderson’s years of experience leading outdoor education programs lend authority to his words, but the essay’s power lies in its simplicity. It is a reminder that hope can be found in the quiet moments between seasons, when the promise of renewal hides beneath snow and ice. As winter continues, Anderson suggests, tuning in to nature’s subtle signals can sustain our spirits until spring bursts forth in full.