There is not much in the world prettier than the cold morning sun hitting untouched snow. I’m not much of a skier or snowmobiler, but the sheer beauty of the glitter of a million diamonds under a late sunrise is impossible to deny, even for the most begrudging of winter enthusiasts. It’s somehow bitterly cold and brilliantly bright, threatening and inviting, butter-smooth and sandpaper-rough, all at the same time – truly one of God’s tender mercies in the midst of Old Man Winter's clutches.
I’ve been around snow every winter of my life. But when I first met my wife, she introduced (or at least reintroduced) me to the wonder and joy of newly fallen snow. More specifically, to the unrivaled satisfaction of making the first footprints in it. Like a kid who just can’t resist taking a flying leap into the middle of a freshly made bed, the new snow calls to her. And it’s contagious. Even now, a decade-and-a-half later, if we wake up in the morning to discover that it snowed overnight, we can only admire the peaceful icy beauty for a minute or two before she looks at me with an impish glint in her eyes, and we race each other and the kids out to the backyard to make our mark on winter’s previously unmarked blanket.
If anyone asks you, “What colour is snow?” the answer invariably is, “White.” But anyone who’s taken a moment to actually look at a patch of virgin snow knows there are a zillion points of gold and silver and blue and pink ready to blind you in their radiance.
Of course, snow is also perfectly capable of holding a palette of browns and grays, greens and yellows. When a storm hits, the cows will hunker down in a patch of trees, in a dry creek bed, or on the downwind side of whatever windbreak they can find. But when the snowflakes slow down and the gale pauses to catch its breath, out the old girls come, steam rolling off their backs, plowing through the top layer of crust and powder underneath, to follow the siren call of the feed truck. Before long, Mother Nature’s pristine quilt is littered with hay leaves and straw and worn through to reveal the mud holes and manure and, if you’re lucky, the dormant remnants of last summer’s grass beneath.
If you’re like me, you might find yourself thinking – just for a moment – what a shame it is to mess up that unbroken stretch of white. But the moment soon passes, and you’re able to go about your work, feeding your herd and feeding the world.
A new year (which, yes, I know, is just an arbitrary line that doesn’t really mean anything, but bear with me) represents a chance at a blank canvas for each of us. As of yet, 2026 is an unbroken, glittering field of untouched snow yet to be marred by floods or fires, scours or horn flies, drought or politicians. With a little bit of luck, a few of your plans will go exactly as you intended. Others will be an unmitigated disaster. But right now, in the moment before the calendar turns, 2026 is immaculate.
Don’t you want your boots to leave the first prints in it?
