We can also smell the weather. “Smell” isn’t quite the right word, though, because sound and wind and air pressure are involved. It’s like what an old-time coastal sailing ship captain did when he tossed the lead line to see how much depth he had beneath his keel. The lead at the end of the line had a hollow bottom with wax in it. When it came back up, the captain could check to see what kind of bottom he was sailing over – shells, rock, mud – and what it smelled like. After years of experience, he could tell pretty well where he was, even in the darkest night or heaviest fog.

Soft-falling snow dampens every sound outside and muffles the house like a thermos bottle. The ceiling of the bedroom glows whiter than usual. A storm drives snow against the windows like sand. A heavy wind ruffles the curtains and brings the thump of the occasional falling tree or branch. A winter rain drips from the eaves and warns us to go down the driveway slowly the next morning and test the traction, if any. The sound of the plow rumbling by in the small hours, its yellow lights flashing dimly on the bedroom walls, comforts us. We used to know when an animal was passing; our dog growled softly as its scent drifted in the open window. After our current period of grieving, we may again try to install such a gentle little alarm system.

Now, with the equinox and the official start of spring only a couple of weeks away, the window is open night and day, and the smells are more intense and evocative.

Some of the neighbors start their stoves at dusk to ward off the chill of evening. Before they go to bed, they toss in a few more chunks of hardwood and close the draft and damper to hold the fire all night. The stifled stoves smoke. The smoke strikes the cold air outside, settles in the valleys and in the trees, and drifts in the open window. We know then that spring can’t be far, though past experience warns that it may be farther than we hope.

The deer, who kept pretty much in the woods up beyond the swamp all winter, are everywhere all of a sudden. They watch cautiously as I shuffle down the driveway or out to the garage on the early-morning ice, and hop only a few feet up into the cedars. They don’t seem to mind being seen, but they do mind it if I stare. That makes them nervous.

Vagaries of the breeze sometimes bring us the smell of boiling sap. For years we had that aroma in our clothes from boiling our own – on concrete-block fireplaces in the driveway, on a kerosene space heater, and for a couple of years in a borrowed sugarbush and arch. I was never successful at it, especially when I considered the dozens of hours of effort required to produce what I could have bought with one or two hours’ wages. One year, late at night, Mother disappeared from the sugarhouse, and I couldn’t find her anywhere outside. I was sure she’d fallen into the river, which flowed black and cold a few yards from the door. But when I jumped into the Beetle to go rouse the volunteer fire department, she reared up from the back seat where she’d been sleeping.

One smell we used to get a lot, but don’t much anymore, is that of barn dressing. I hear it’s now illegal to spread manure on fields till after the snow is gone. It must be maddening to pass up the chance to get out onto the fields while they’re still frozen – especially when you think about the sucky mud that comes next – all to prevent the pollution of some faraway lake. Makes me wonder wonder what the smell of a methane digester is like. We haven’t experienced that yet.

I attended a conference once over on Lake Champlain, at the Basin Harbor Club, in high springtime. It was a gathering of loggers, farmers, fish and wildlife people, conservationists, foresters, legislators, professors, and media people, convened to discuss the essence of Vermont, its present state, and future. I was gratified to see how people with often conflicting interests coalesced around the goal of keeping the state green and beautiful.

It was warm – May, I think – and all the windows and doors were open. About midmorning a farmer close by and directly upwind of the Club began spreading manure on his fields. He must have known what he was doing; I picture him with a wry smile as he sent his blessings downwind toward the collection of cars and trucks so obviously from away. The smell was really powerful, but nobody wanted to be the first to acknowledge or complain about it. Finally the moderator could ignore it no longer, “That, ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “is the essence of Vermont!”

Other essences of Vermont – of all northern New England, in fact – steal through the open window into my consciousness. The firewood logs I left last fall for another year are emerging from their niveous blanket to be bucked, split, and carted into the cellar. There are tangles of brush and some wind-felled dead spruces to be piled and burned. Fascia all painted and sitting in the attic of the garage waiting to be installed. Boats to paint and varnish before the first voyage of spring. Outside motion-detecting lights waiting for a man to come along with a ladder. The evocative breezes have evoked more than I desired. Though eager for spring, I lie awake in the dark wondering glumly where to begin, and briefly wish to be a woodchuck, who upon awakening, can take a look outside, decide spring’s not going to happen yet, and tunnel back under the covers.