An old-fashioned snow-storm.

December 23. 

December 23, 2021

Here is an old-fashioned snow-storm.

There is not much passing on railroads. The engineer says it is three feet deep above.

Walden is frozen, one third of it, though I thought it was all frozen as I stood on the shore on one side only.

There is no track on the Walden road. A traveller might cross it in the woods and not be sure it was a road.

As I pass the farmers' houses I observe the cop [sic] of the sled propped up with a stick to prevent its freezing into the snow.

The needles of the pines are drooping like cockerels' feathers after a rain, and frozen together by the sleety snow.

The pitch pines now bear their snowy fruit.

I can discern a faint foot or sled path sooner when the ground is covered with snow than when it is bare. The depression caused by the feet or the wheels is more obvious; perhaps the light and shade betray it, but I think it is mainly because the grass and weeds rise above it on each side and leave it blank, and a blank space of snow contrasts more strongly with the woods or grass than bare or beaten ground.

Even the surface of the snow is wont to be in waves like billows of the ocean.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, December 23, 1850

Old-fashioned snow-storm.  The surface of the snow is wont to be in waves like billows of the ocean See December 23, 1851 ("A pure and trackless white napkin covers the ground,"); See also December 14, 1859 ("Snow-storms might be classified.");  December 27, 1853 ("The snow blows like spray, fifteen feet high, across the fields, while the wind roars in the trees as in the rigging of a vessel. It is altogether like the ocean in a storm"); January 9, 1859 ("The surface of the snow is in great waves whose ridges run from east to west, about a rod apart, or generally less, — say ten feet, — low and gentle swells"); February 10, 1855 ("Billows of snow succeed each other across the fields and roads, like an ocean waste.") and February 1, 1856 ("It has been what is called “an old-fashioned winter.”")

Walden is frozen, one third of it, though I thought it was all frozen as I stood on the shore on one side only. See  December 26, 1850 ("Walden not yet more than half frozen over."); December 31, 1850 ("Walden pond has frozen over since I was there last.")  See also December 23, 1845 ("The pond froze over last night entirely for the first time, yet so as not to be safe to walk upon”) and December 11, 1858 ("Walden is about one-third skimmed over."); December 20, 1858 ("Walden is frozen over, except two small spots, less than half an acre in all, in middle")'; December 21, 1854 "Walden is frozen over, apparently about two inches thick. It must have frozen, the whole of it, since the snow of the 18th,-— probably the night of the 18th"); December 21, 1855 (“Walden is skimmed over, all but an acre, in my cove.”); December 21, 1856 ("The pond is open again in the middle, owing to the rain of yesterday.") December 22, 1858 (“The pond is no more frozen than on the 20th.”); December 22, 1853 ("Walden skimmed over in the widest part, but some acres still open; will probably freeze entirely to-night if this weather holds.”);  December 24, 1856 ("Am surprised to find Walden still open in the middle.”); December 24, 1859 ("There is, in all, an acre or two in Walden not yet frozen, though half of it has been frozen more than a week"); December 24, 1858 ("Those two places in middle of Walden not frozen over yet, though it was quite cold last night! "); December 25, 1858 ("Walden at length skimmed over last night, i. e. the two holes that remained open. One was very near the middle and deepest part, the other between that and the railroad.”);December 26, 1853 ("Walden still open.. . . the only pond hereabouts that is open.");   December 27, 1852 ("Not a particle of ice in Walden to-day. Paddled across it.); December 27, 1856 "Walden is still open in one place of considerable extent, just off the east cape of long southern bay.");. December 27, 1857 ("Walden is almost entirely skimmed over. It will probably be completely frozen over to-night");. December 28, 1858 (“The ice is about six inches thick.”) December 28, 1856 ("Walden completely frozen over again last night."); December 29, 1855 ("Am surprised to find eight or ten acres of Walden still open,. . .It must be owing to the wind partly.");December 30, 1853 ("The pond not yet frozen entirely over; about six acres open, the wind blew so hard last night. "); December 30, 1855 ("There was yesterday eight or ten acres of open water at the west end of Walden, where is depth and breadth combined"); December 31, 1853 ("Walden froze completely over last night. It is, however, all snow ice, as it froze while it was snowing hard, and it looks like frozen yeast somewhat.”)

The needles of the pines are drooping like cockerels' feathers after a rain, and frozen together by the sleety snow. See December 23, 1859 ("I noticed on the 18th that the plumes of the pine which had been covered with snow and glaze and were then thawed and wet with the mist and rain were very much contracted or narrowed, — and this gave a peculiar and more open character to the tree.")

The pitch pines now bear their snowy fruit.  See  December 17, 1851 ("The pitch pines hold the snow well. It lies now in balls on their plumes and in streaks on their branches.");. January 19, 1855 ("On some pitch pines it lay in fruit-like balls as big as one’s head, like cocoanuts."):January 30, 1841 ("The snow collects upon the plumes of the pitch pine in the form of a pineapple.")

I can discern a faint foot or sled path sooner when the ground is covered with snow than when it is bare.  See   November 24, 1858 ("I can not only distinguish plowed fields — regular white squares in the midst of russet — but even cart-paths, and foot or cow paths a quarter of a mile long, as I look across to Conantum."); December 16, 1857 ("Plowed grounds show white first."); February 16, 1854 ("That Indian trail on the hillside about Walden is revealed with remarkable distinctness to me standing on the middle of the pond, by the slight snow which had lodged on it forming a clear white line unobscured by weeds and twigs. (For snow is a great revealer not only of tracks made in itself, but even in the earth before it fell.) It is quite distinct in many places where you would not have noticed it before. A light snow will often reveal a faint foot or cart track in a field which was hardly discernible before, for it reprints it, as it were, in clear white type, alto-relievo.”)

December 23.  See A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, December 23

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau

 "A book, each page written in its own season, 

out-of-doors, in its own locality."

 ~edited, assembled and rewritten by zphx ©  2009-2023

tinyurl.com/hdt501223

The snow-storm is over

December 23

December 23, 2016

This morning, when I woke, I found it snowing, the snow fine and driving almost horizontally, as if it had set in for a long storm, but a little after noon it ceased snowing and began to clear up, and I set forth for a walk. 

The snow which we have had for the last week or ten days has been remarkably light and dry. It is pleasant walking in the woods now, when the sun is just coming out and shining on the woods freshly covered with snow. 

At a distance the oak woods look very venerable. A fine, hale, wintry aspect things wear, and the pines, all snowed up, even suggest comfort. Where boughs cross each other much snow is caught, which now in all woods is gradually tumbling down. 

By half past three the sun is fairly out. I go to the Cliffs. There is a narrow ridge of snow, a white line, on the storm side of the stem of every exposed tree. 

I see that there is to be a fine, clear sunset, and make myself a seat in the snow on the Cliff to witness it. 

Already a few clouds are glowing like a golden sierra just above the horizon. From a low arch the clear sky has rapidly spread eastward over the whole heavens, and the sun shines serenely, and the air is still, and the spotless snow covers the fields. The snow-storm is over, the clouds have departed, the sun shines serenely, the air is still, a pure and trackless white napkin covers the ground, and a fair evening is coming to conclude all. 

Gradually the sun sinks, the air grows more dusky, and I perceive that if it were not for the light reflected from the snow it would be quite dark. The woodchopper has started for home. I can no longer distinguish the color of the red oak leaves against the snow, but they appear black. The partridges have come forth to bud on the apple trees. 

Now the sun has quite disappeared, but the afterglow, as I may call it, apparently the reflection from the cloud beyond which the sun went down on the thick atmosphere of the horizon, is unusually bright and lasting. Long, broken clouds in the horizon, in the dun atmosphere, — as if the fires of day were still smoking there, — hang with red and golden edging like the saddle cloths of the steeds of the sun. 

December 23, 2018

Now all the clouds grow black, and I give up to-night; but unexpectedly, half an hour later when I look out, having got home, I find that the evening star is shining brightly, and, beneath all, the west horizon is glowing red, — that dun atmosphere instead of clouds reflecting the sun, — and I detect, just above the horizon, the narrowest imaginable white sickle of the new moon.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, December 23, 1851

This morning, when I woke, I found it snowing, the snow fine and driving almost horizontally, as if it had set in for a long storm. See December 23, 1850 ("Here is an old-fashioned snow-storm.")  See also December 14, 1859 ("Snow-storms might be classified. This is a fine, dry snow, drifting nearly horizontally from the north, so that it is quite blinding to face”)

There is a narrow ridge of snow, a white line, on the storm side of the stem of every exposed tree. See January 5, 1852 ("To-day the trees are white with snow . . . and have the true wintry look, on the storm side. Not till this has the winter come to the forest.”);  December 27, 1853 (“there is a white ridge up and down their trunks on the northwest side, showing which side the storm came from, which, better than the moss, would enable one to find his way in the night.”); February 21, 1854 (“The snow has lodged more or less in perpendicular lines on the northerly sides of trees”); December 26, 1855 (“The ice is chiefly on the upper and on the storm side of twigs”); January 14, 1856 ("I think that you can best tell from what side the storm came by observing on which side of the trees the snow is plastered."); January 27, 1856 ("The lodging snow of January 13th, just a fortnight ago, still adheres in deep and conspicuous ridges to large exposed trees, too stubborn to be shaken by the wind, showing from which side the storm came.")

I see that there is to be a fine, clear sunset, and make myself a seat in the snow on the Cliff to witness it. See December 23, 1859 ("I ascended Ball's Hill to see the sun set. How red its light at this hour!")

The woodchopper has started for home. See· December 15, 1856 (“the last strokes of the woodchopper, who presently bends his steps homeward; ”)

The evening star is shining brightly, and, beneath all, the west horizon is glowing red and just above the horizon, the narrowest imaginable white sickle of the new moon.  See  January 23, 1852 ("And the new moon and the evening star, close together, preside over the twilight scene”); January 24, 1852 (“And now the crescent of the moon is seen, and her attendant star is farther off than last night.”); February  3, 1852 ("The moon is nearly full tonight, and the moment is passed when the light in the east (i. e. of the moon) balances the light in the west. Venus is now like a little moon in the west,"); June 15, 1852 ("The evening star, multiplied by undulating water, is like bright sparks of fire continually ascending. "); July 27, 1852 ("All glow on the clouds is gone, except from one higher, small, rosy pink isle. The solemnity of the evening sky! Just before the earliest star I turn round, and there shines the moon, silvering the small clouds which have gathered.”)

December 23. See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, December 23

The storm is over –

trackless snow covers the fields

and the air is still.

Walking in the woods

the sun just coming out and

shining on fresh snow

a narrow white line

of snow on the storm side of

every exposed tree.

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, The snow-storm is over

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, 

"A book, each page written in its own season,

out-of-doors, in its own locality.”

~edited, assembled and rewritten by zphx © 2009-2024

https://tinyurl.com/hdt-511223

The snow-crust marked by the streams of water

February 2

The snow-crust on all hills and knolls is now marked by the streams of water that have flowed down it, like a coarsely combed head; i. e., the unbroken crust is in alternate ridges and furrows from the tops of the hills to the bottoms.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, February 2, 1857

See February 2, 1854 ("The Cliff Hill is nearly bare on the west side, and you hear the rush of melted snow down its side in one place")

A driving snow-storm

January 19.

I never saw the blue in snow so bright as this damp, dark, stormy morning at 7 A. M., as I was coming down the railroad. I did not have to make a hole in it, but I saw it some rods off in the deep, narrow ravines of the drifts and under their edges or eaves, like the serenest blue of heaven, though the sky was, of course, wholly concealed by the driving snow-storm; suggesting that in darkest storms we may still have the hue of heaven in us. 

At noon it is still a driving snow-storm, and a little flock of redpolls is busily picking the seeds of the pig weed in the garden. Almost all have more or less crimson; a few are very splendid, with their particularly bright crimson breasts. The white on the edge of their wing-coverts is very conspicuous.

 P. M. — The damp snow still drives from the northwest nearly horizontally over the fields. We go through the Spring Woods, over the Cliff, by the wood-path at its base to Walden, and thence by the path to Brister’s Hill, and by road home. There is not a single fresh track on the back road, and the aspect of the road and trees and houses is very wintry.

The trees are everywhere bent into the path like bows tautly strung, and you have only to shake them with your hand or foot, when they rise up and make way for you. We go winding between and stooping or creeping under them, fearing to touch them, lest they should relieve themselves of their burden and let fall an avalanche or shower of snow on to us.  

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, January 19, 1855

I never saw the blue in snow so bright as this damp, dark, stormy morning . . . suggesting that in darkest storms we may still have the hue of heaven in us. Compare January 5, 1854  ("There is also some blueness now in the snow, the heavens being now (toward night) overcast. The blueness is more distinct after sunset"); See January 9, 1852 ("Apparently the snow absorbs the other rays and reflects the blue."); January 14, 1852 ("There is no blueness in the ruts and crevices in the snow to-day. What kind of atmosphere does this require? . . . It is one of the most interesting phenomena of the winter."); January 18, 1852  ("Perhaps the snow in the air, as well as on the ground, takes up the white rays and reflects the blue.”);  January 20, 1856 ("I see the blue between the cakes of snow cast out in making a path, in the triangular recesses, though it is pretty cold, but the sky is completely overcast"); January 26, 1852 ("To-day I see . . . a slight blueness in the chinks, it being cloudy and melting.”)

At noon it is still a driving snow-storm, and a little flock of redpolls is busily picking the seeds of the pigweed in the garden. See February 10, 1855 ("It is worth the while to let some pigweed grow in your garden, if only to attract these winter visitors. "); December 11, 1855 ("The snow will be three feet deep, the ice will be two feet thick, and last night, perchance, the mercury sank to thirty degrees below zero. . . .. But under the edge of yonder birch wood will be a little flock of crimson-breasted lesser redpolls, busily feeding on the seeds of the birch and shaking down the powdery snow!. . . I am struck by the perfect confidence and success of nature. There is no question about the existence of these delicate creatures, their adaptedness to their circumstances.") See also  A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The Lesser Redpoll

The trees are everywhere bent into the path like bows tautly strung.  See December 26, 1853 ("The pure and trackless road up Brister's Hill, with branches and trees supporting snowy burdens bending over it on each side.")

January 19. See A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau,  January 19

I never saw blue

in snow so bright as this damp

dark stormy morning.

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, A driving snow-storm

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau

"A book, each page written in its own season,

out-of-doors, in its own locality.”

~edited, assembled and rewritten by zphx © 2009-2025

Trackless snow

December 26.

This forenoon it snows pretty hard for some hours, the first snow of any consequence thus far. It is about three inches deep. I go out at 2.30, just as it ceases. Now is the time, before the wind rises or the sun has shone, to go forth and see the snow on the trees. 

It has fallen so gently that it forms an upright wall on the slenderest twig. And every twig thus laden is as still as the hillside itself. 

December 26, 2013

The sight of the pure and trackless road up Brister's Hill, with branches and trees supporting snowy burdens bending over it on each side, would tempt us to begin life again. 

The ice is covered up, and skating gone. The bare hills are so white that I cannot see their outlines against the misty sky. The snow lies handsomely on the shrub oaks, like a coarse braiding in the air. They have so many small and zigzag twigs that it comes near to filling up with a light snow to that depth. 

The hunters are already out with dogs to follow the first beast that makes a track. 

Saw a small flock of tree sparrows in the sprout- lands under Bartlett's Cliff. Their metallic chip is much like the lisp of the chickadee. 

All weeds, with their seeds, rising dark above the snow, are now remarkably conspicuous, which before were not observed against the dark earth. 

I passed by the pitch pine that was struck by lightning. I was impressed with awe on looking up and seeing that broad, distinct spiral mark, more distinct even than when made eight years ago, as one might groove a walking-stick, — mark of an invisible and in tangible power, a thunderbolt, mark where a terrific and resistless bolt came down from heaven, out of the harmless sky, eight years ago. It seemed a sacred spot. 

I felt that we had not learned much since the days of Tullus Hostilius. It at length shows the effect of the shock, and the woodpeckers have begun to bore it on one side. 

Walden still open. Saw in it a small diver, probably a grebe or dobchick, dipper, or what-not, with the markings, as far as I saw, of the crested grebe, but smaller. It had a black head, a white ring about its neck, a white breast, black back, and apparently no tail. It dove and swam a few rods under water, and, when on the surface, kept turning round and round warily and nodding its head the while. This being the only pond hereabouts that is open.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, December 26, 1853

The first snow of any consequence thus far. It is about three inches deep. See December 26, 1857 ("Snows all day, — first snow of any consequence, three or four inches in all.").See also note to November 29, 1856 ("This is the first snow.”)

It has fallen so gently that it forms an upright wall on the slenderest twig. See November 24, 1858 (“Being very moist, it had lodged on every twig, and every one had its counterpart in a light downy white one, twice or thrice its own depth, resting on it."): December 24, 1856 ("The snow collects and is piled up in little columns like down about every twig and stem, and this is only seen in perfection, complete to the last flake, while it is snowing, as now.”); February 21, 1854 ("You cannot walk too early in new-fallen snow to get the sense of purity, novelty, and unexploredness.”); January 14, 1853 ("White walls of snow rest on the boughs of trees, in height two or three times their thickness.”)

Begin life again: See January 23, 1860 ("Walking on the ice by the side of the river this very pleasant morning, I recommence life.”)

All weeds, with their seeds, rising dark above the snow, are now remarkably conspicuous, which before were not observed against the dark earth.  See December 26, 1855 ("But the low and spreading weeds in the fields and the wood-paths are the most interesting.”); See also November 18, 1855 ("Now first mark the stubble and numerous withered weeds rising above the snow. They have suddenly acquired a new character. “)

Walden still open. Saw in it a small diver, probably a grebe or dobchick, dipper, or what-not, ... It had a black head, a white ring about its neck, a white breast, black back, and apparently no tail....This being the only pond hereabouts that is open. See December 27, 1852 (“Not a particle of ice in Walden to-day. ... A black and white duck on it, Flint's and Fair Haven being frozen up.”) See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The Little Dipper and A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Annual ice-in at Walden

It has snowed for hours

and, as it ceases, we go out

to see the new snow.

Gently fallen snow

has formed an upright wall on

the slenderest twig.

And every twig

thus laden is as still as

the hillside itself.

All weeds with their seeds,

rising dark above the snow,

now conspicuous.

The branches and trees

supporting snowy burdens

bend over the road.

This pure and trackless

road up Brister's Hill  tempts us

to start life again.

tinyurl.com/hdt531226

Thus beautiful the snow.

January 14

Snows all day.

The place of the sun appears through the storm about three o'clock, a sign that it is near its end, though it still snows as hard as ever. It is a very light snow, lying like down or feathery scales. Examined closely, the flakes are beautifully regular six-rayed stars or wheels with a centre disk, perfect geometrical figures in thin scales far more perfect than I can draw. These thin crystals are piled about a foot deep all over the country, but as light as bran.

White walls of snow rest on the boughs of trees, in height two or three times their thickness. Already, before the storm is over, the surface of the snow in the high woods is full of indentations and hollows where some of this burden has fallen.

And now the snow has quite ceased, blue sky appears, and the sun goes down in clouds. The surface of fields, as I look toward the western light, appears as if different kinds of flakes drifted together, some glistening scales, others darker; or perhaps the same reflected the light differently from different sides of slight drifts or undulations on the surface. 

Thus beautiful the snow. These starry crystals, descending profusely, have woven a pure white garment, over all the fields.

Snow freshly fallen is one thing, to-morrow it will be another. 

It is now pure and trackless. Walking three or four miles in the woods, I see but one track of any kind, yet by to-morrow morning there will he countless tracks of all sizes all over the country.


H. D. Thoreau, Journal, January 14, 1853

It is now pure and trackless, yet by to-morrow morning there will he countless tracks. See February 21, 1854 (“You cannot walk too early in new-fallen snow to get the sense of purity, novelty, and unexploredness.”); January 31, 1856 (“These fresh falls of snow are like turning over a new leaf of Nature’s Album.”)

After the Storm

January 19

The snow, which has drifted badly, ceases about 2 o'clock,  and I go forth by way of Walden road, wither no sleigh or sled had passed this day.  

It is pleasant to make the first tracks in this road through the woods, where all the road was obliterated, except  two long slight valleys marking the ruts,  – a smooth, white plain between the bordering woods, the fine, dry snow blowing and drifting still.  For long distances  I sink into the snow more than three feet at each step. 

From Bare Hill I look into the west, the sun still fifteen minutes high. The snow blowing far off in the sun, high as a house, looks like the mist that rises from rivers in the morning.  

The low western sky an Indian red, after the sun is gone.


H. D. Thoreau, Journal, January 19, 1852

The snow blowing far off in the sun . . . looks like the mist that rises from rivers in the morning. See February 3, 1855 ("flowing streams of snow, in form like the steam which curls along a river’s surface at sunrise"); January 19, 1860 ("This snow looks just like vapor curling along over the surface, long waving lines producing the effect of a watered surface in motion .");See also December 24, 1850 ("like steam curling up, as from a wet roof when the sun comes out after a rain.");  February 16, 1852 ("I see the steam-like snow-dust curling up and careering along over the fields. . . .like the spray on a beach before the northwest wind.")

January 19. See A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau,  January 19

I sink into snow

more than three feet at each step –

first tracks through the woods

To make the first tracks

in this road through the woods as

snow blows and drifts still.

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, After the Storm

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau

"A book, each page written in its own season,

out-of-doors, in its own locality.”

~edited, assembled and rewritten by zphx © 2009-2025

The snow, which has drifted badly, ceasing about 2 o'clock, I went forth by way of Walden road, whither no sleigh or sled had passed this day, the fine, dry snow blowing and drifting still. 

It was pleasant to make the first tracks in this road through the woods, where all the road, except a faint depression, two long slight valleys, marking the ruts, was obliterated, — a smooth, white plain between the bordering woods, which only a few dry oak leaves coursed over. I sank into the snow for long distances more than three feet at each step.

From Bare Hill I looked into the west, the sun still fifteen minutes high. The snow blowing far off in the sun, high as a house, looked like the mist that rises from rivers in the morning.

I came across lots through the dry white powder from Britton's camp. Very cold on the causeway and on the hilltops. The low western sky an Indian red, after the sun was gone.