Why does winter always come as such a surprise? The Celts maintain it begins Nov. 1, climatologists say Dec. 1, while meteorologists and astrologers claim it starts with the solstice that this year will kick off at 1:35 p.m. on Dec. 21. But year after year we have contests to predict the appearance of the first flakes and then stare at them in amazement while 9.6 million websites and legions of professional and armchair atmospheric scientists, abetted by bartenders, speculate on the length and intensity of the winter ahead.
In the Rockies, where we measure the severity of a winter by how much fence wire the snow covers, four-wire winters remain the norm. Global warming means we are going to use three instead of four cords of wood and hunker down to read fewer books. We don’t need balloons, high-tech radar, satellite images or computer models to predict a hefty winter. We wax our boards all summer long and, even when we take time out to boat and bike and climb, we spend our evenings poking campfires and reminiscing about which pass was closed, who got hypothermia, why the mail didn’t get through, and how to avoid snow snakes.
We are obsessed with Big Winters. We start preparing as soon as health aficionados begin describing which viruses are going to kill us this year. The minute we see shovels in hardware store aisles and soup recipes in newspapers, some of us begin looking for crickets, because legend dictates adding 40 to the number of times a cricket chirps in 14 seconds. The higher the number, the rougher the winter.
We look for excessive roadkill, bigger beaver houses and busier bees. We track when geese head south and squirrels lay in large stores of nuts. We chart how high birds and wasps build their nests. We watch for onionskins and corn husks to grow thicker, stock and wildlife to sport heavier coats, and Aunt Lena to take to the sofa complaining about her arthritis.
Both experts and drunks have developed unique techniques for predicting the weather. Most are as prophetic as the story about the American Indian chief who repeatedly called the weather service to ask whether his tribe should be collecting firewood. Every time he called he was assured they should be gathering it, and every time he told his tribe to collect more firewood. Predictions of a harsh winter, the chief eventually was told, were based on the fact that the Indians were gathering so much firewood.
Prognosticators Anonymous embraces a motley crew.
Some examine caterpillars. Entomologists and practical jokers say dark, thick, fuzzy bristles betoken a rough winter. The more scientific measure the width of the brownish-orange bands around the midsection of woolly bears, the larval form of tiger moths, because the narrower the width the harsher the winter. Others measure pigs’ spleens. Longtime Polish and Ukrainian farmers in Saskatchewan, despite the skepticism of animal scientists, claim the thicker the spleen of a pig slaughtered in the fall, the colder the winter.
In northwest Colorado we swear by skunk cabbage. Old Bill Sherrod, who raised cattle and 4-H kids in the Yampa Valley, claimed he could predict the depth of upcoming snowfalls by measuring the height of the skunk cabbage. Although the plant does little more than herald spring, feed black bears and provide a bordello for insects, Bill and the Boys at the Bar spent a lot of time and tequila analyzing how to “read” skunk cabbage leaves. No sooner did word spread from the legion hall to the national media than Bill began receiving orders for skunk cabbage seed from all over the country.
Way before the feds got into the weather-predicting business in 1890, farmers, sailors and gardeners used almanacs to predict the weather. Stanley Harris’ Farmers Almanac, first published in 1693 in the tradition of “Poor Richard’s Almanac” promises normal snowfall and temperatures in 2006. Peter Geiger’s Farmer’s Almanac, published since 1818, claims we are coming up on a “Polar Coaster.”
The granddaddy of ’em all, The Old Farmer’s Almanac, published since 1792, assures a mild winter with snowfall well below normal and temperatures two to three degrees above normal. National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration forecasters agree, anticipating above-normal temperatures and near-normal precipitation on the Western Slope this winter.
Up at Dry Lake the real contest is not to determine when the first snow will fall, but how long we can wait before turning on the heat. We don’t predict weather by inspecting sunspots, the position of the moon or restless animals. We just watch for when the neighbors leave for Florida.
