January is the worst month of the year.
My early winter doldrums are attributable to several factors: the end of the holidays (and the fall hunting season), the dispersal of family, and the weather. The steel gray skies and early twilight that signaled the arrival of Christmas just a month ago now portend something less cheerful.
Despite its many faults, January provides a modicum of hope — the potential for snow. Since childhood, I have found joy in inclement winter weather. My fondest memories — from the oldest to more recent — include languid days set against frosted landscapes.
But this love of snow, at least in Virginia, comes with the risk of heartbreak. I have learned the hard way that what’s initially predicted doesn’t necessarily pan out.
For local snow lovers, the pattern is all too familiar. Arctic high pressure pushes into the Mid-Atlantic. A low-pressure system — incipiently, a strand of clouds near the Pacific Northwest —forms and begins its deliberate trek from west to east.
Five days out, the forecast appears promising; on color-coded weather maps, our region is striped in wide swaths of deep blue and purple, indicating the likelihood of plowable snow.
But five days out is an eternity in the snow business. Experienced watchers know to eye these early maps with skepticism.
And rightfully so. As these winter storms approach the East Coast, the lows invariably drift off our hoped-for paths — usually to the north. Warmer Gulf or Atlantic moisture supplants the cold air, and in the process, those ethereal snowflakes transform into less majestic forms. The attendant colors on the weather maps change to garish hues of neon pink, green, and yellow.
Last weekend’s storm followed this predictable pattern. Having lived in the Roanoke Valley for nearly 15 years, I was prepared for it.
Forty-eight hours away, the once-promising low turned north and the early (and overly optimistic) snow predictions gave way to the harsher alternatives of ice, changing to cold rain.
As I learned from reading former Roanoke Times weather correspondent (and now Cardinal News contributor) Kevin Myatt, one shouldn’t blame the meteorologists; the dreaded “rain-snow line” can be a fickle thing.
But my fragile January psyche couldn’t bear another slushy disappointment. I decided to move to the better side of this winter storm.
Nestled deep in the Allegheny Mountains, Highland County, which lies, on average, approximately 2,900 feet above sea level, offered better prospects for unadulterated winter bliss.
Sometimes referred to as Virginia’s “Little Switzerland,” the county, eighty miles due north of the Star City, and which proudly claims the lowest population in the state, is my refuge during the warmer months.
From April to October, I am regularly drawn, fly rod in hand, to the pristine waters of the Upper Jackson River, which teems with rainbow — and the more elusive brown — trout. Although my fishing prospects should be poor this time of year, at least I’d get my snow fix.
Twenty-four hours out, the forecast for Highland County was still promising: three to five inches of snow, changing to mixed precipitation. The weather pundits and their models agreed; Highland County would be in the snow sweet spot, if one was to be had. I made the journey north hoping for the best.
Saturday morning dawned a disappointment. Although the thermometer indicated that it was a few degrees below freezing, cold rain predominated. Forecasting difficulties aside, I prepared to convict Myatt and his cohorts of making material misrepresentations.
But just as despair set in, blessed snow began to fall. For most of the morning, large flakes poured over a nearby ridge into the Bolar Valley. It was wet and heavy, and occasionally mixed with sleet, but it was snow nonetheless.
Although not an epic storm by any objective measure — to be honest, the total accumulation (about two inches) barely justified the Winter Weather Advisory that was still in effect — but it would do.
A silk blanket covered the dormant hay field. The willowy black branches of the walnut trees lining the riverbank were encrusted in a thin coat of white and bowed, just slightly, under the weight. And snow landed faintly on the surface of the river, which, in an apparent sign of gratitude, emitted wisps of steam.
My 6-year-old golden retriever who loves Highland (and snow) more than I do frolicked in the winter mire, matting his fluffy coat with ice and mud.
Even the trout, usually in a listless state of semi-hibernation during the winter months, were inspired.
Within my first two casts, a 16-inch rainbow shot from a deep hole beneath an undercut bank and ingested the small streamer I had pitched towards him.
Not wanting this enchanted afternoon to end, the wily trout rebuffed my advances, dragging the line (and me) 25 yards downstream before surfacing, just long enough, to land into my net.
On my next cast, another rainbow hit with similar force and, after a valiant fight, suffered the same (but temporary) fate. (Both fish were safely released into the river.)
By late afternoon, the storm’s final bands of snow had moved north, and faint rays of sunlight emerged behind a brightening sky.
Although it had not been as advertised, Winter Storm Ember had sufficiently buoyed my spirits. These days, I’ll take whatever snow I can get.
