Nathan Hammerschmitt Le Gal

The Snow Aesthetic

The snow has arrived, and it hasn't disappointed. The initial storm set in, carpeting Dartmouth's campus in showers of gentle white flakes. I would say the general feeling was one of satisfaction—of relief. Dartmouth's hordes of skiers and winter adventurers were ready, and the snow took a long time to get here.

Now that it's here, it seems every form of human-powered transport that relies on sliding atop frozen water—skis, sleds, etc.—has been brought out. I plan to get back into Nordic Skiing myself, that is, if the snow lasts. 

Initially, all of campus is a blinding white. Every square inch seems to have accrued some small pile of snow. The contrast between the brick architecture and the crystals is extreme—not as extreme as the contrast between the snow and the sidewalk, though. 

That's because all snow on paths of human transport is reduced to a darker, slushy consistency. What was once smooth and satisfying becomes trodden and stirred. The landscape evolves, and gradually, the snow turns into more of an accent than a pervasive feature. 

Everyone I talk to, even the warm weather lovers, enjoys the snow. It brings us students together; it allows us to meet on the Green at midnight and throw maximum-velocity snowballs at each other (a winter tradition). 

Then it recedes. The formerly stately swaths of snow retreat into thin layers and measly piles until a forty-five-degree day comes along and finally wipes it out. In a more catastrophic turn of events, the snow flurries turn into rain overnight, crushing all hopes of a magical snowy morning. 

Occasionally, a snow squall occurs. It's a rapid deposit of snow that reduces visibility to near zero and makes going outside feel like an expedition into Antarctica—it's exciting and invigorating. The squalls, however, only last around an hour. For at least the rest of the day, the snow quota has been met—skiers have hope… I have hope.

A view of a snow squall from Blobby (Baker-Berry Library lobby)

Let it snow.