From the Editor

Molly Backes, Communications Coordinator

Iused to work at a wildlife center where we had non-releasable bats, and each winter we would be called upon to rescue more. Many of our North American bat species hibernate in winter, which involves slowing their metabolic processes and lowering their core body temperatures in order to save energy during the long, cold season when insects—their favorite food—are nowhere to be found. Hibernation is an ingenious solution to the question of survival in a period of few resources. No food? No problem: just snuggle in among a thousand of your closest friends and sleep until the world warms up and dinner’s ready.

The problem comes when hibernating bats are disturbed halfway through the winter. It takes a significant amount of energy just to get all their systems back online, and if they use up all that energy when the mosquitos are sleeping under the snow, they become incredibly vulnerable to the elements with no way of replenishing their energy stores. This is where we came in: whenever a human disturbed a hibernating colony, we would end up overwintering as many of the bats as we could, feeding them and keeping them warm until the world outside could meet their needs again.

For many years, I identified with the bats. I have often felt that I was meant to hibernate. Unlike bats, I have access to grocery stores and a credit card, so I don’t need to wait until summer to find food, but many of the other resources I depend on to keep me going throughout the year—sunshine, kayaking, beers at the Terrace, fresh local produce—is in short supply in winter. What’s the point of feasting in November and December, I wonder, if I can’t then sleep until it’s time to pull the kayak out again? Winter felt like something I had to endure, and there were years when, lacking so much of what makes me happy in warmer months, I felt like I was just white-knuckling my way to March.

And yet. I was born here, in Wisconsin, and I belong to this snow and this darkness as much as I belong to the buzzing prairies and beer gardens of summer. Somehow it seems wrong to sleep through an entire season. So I turned to my musher friend Blair for advice on how to thrive in the coldest, darkest time. Unlike bats (and me, most of the time), her sled dogs are happiest in winter. Their thick, layered coats provide so much insulation that Blair has to make sure they’re not overheating when the temperatures are above 0ºF. From Blair, I learned the Norwegian saying “There’s no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothes,” and the importance of trapping as much warm air inside your clothing as possible. With her guidance, I learned to keep myself safe and reasonably warm outside even when the wind chill dips into the negative double digits. More importantly, I learned to change my frame of reference regarding winter—not as something merely to endure, but something, possibly, to enjoy.

I don’t predict that I will become a true winter person anytime soon, but experimenting with leaning into winter—appreciating the bite and snap of frozen air, the way the light catches in the icy branches—has opened the door into another way of experiencing these long, dark months, and helped me to think about what else might feed me. I may not be a husky, but perhaps I can borrow some of the unfettered joy they feel as they cross the tundra by moonlight. Maybe it will even be enough to keep my soul nourished until spring comes again.