In the morning the temperature is a single degree above zero. Snow is falling, but the flakes are small, as if stunted by the cold. The cats lie immobilized by the wood stove, their long, heat-hungry bodies splayed across the hearth. I drive up the mountain at the break of day, the road striated at regular intervals by shallow drifts of windblown snow that make barely audible whumping noises as I pass through them. There are few houses along this stretch, and I do not see any other travelers, and their absence, combined with the cold and the wind and the uncertain light of this in-between hour allow me to imagine that I am careening into a desolate land, where safe passage is hardly guaranteed. And perhaps, in a way, I am.
At the road’s crest, I bind myself to my skis and angle toward the forest, where the wind is most forgiving. Even still, I am compelled to stop at regular intervals to swing my arms in exaggerated half circles, forcing hot blood into the tips of my numbing fingers. I know my body well enough to know that I’ll need to do this four or five or maybe six times before I’ve crossed the unprotected expanse of Dead Moose Pond and the trail pitches upward and my heart picks up its pace.
If I hurry, I’ll have just enough time to make the top of the mountain, which is the namesake of the small town situated along its western flank, the very one I live in. Yet there is no marked trail to its summit, and no real way to determine exactly when you’ve arrived there, unless you know to look for the little jar that hangs from the little beech tree that someone – I don’t know who, I don’t know when – decided would be the place. There are scraps of paper in the jar, and a dull pencil, and sometimes I sign my name and sometimes I don’t. Sometimes, I open the jar and just leaf through the paper scraps, curious to see who else knows this place or has found it by happenstance. There are some, though not very many at all, and I guess that’s ok with me.
By the time I return to the car, the temperature has risen to 3, and even along the open corridor of the mountain road, the wind has quieted. It’s still snowing, and if anything, the flakes seem even smaller. So small it’s hard to even be certain they exist.
Ben Hewitt 
Was very happy to receive this email … hope you are doing well … it has been a really tough year – last 2024 … hope for myself and everyone out there that 2025 is better!
It is off to an interesting start for sure. I refuse to give up … LOL 😂
Cheers – ET
Hi Ben,
I’m not even sure if you’ll get this “reply” but thought I’d try. I’m a longtime reader (your books included) and I’m wondering if you’d be interested in a quick interview for our online grassroots magazine? My name is Sarah and I’m in northern Minnesota. Our two kids are homeschooled and thriving. We also raise/keep several animals and have a little urban farm, if you will.
I think you are a fantastic writer and your scope on life is vital, especially in the current unrest of our culture and country. My daughter, 14, is in the process of getting her novella published. If there is any chance she could ask you a few general questions about writing, please let me know. We are new and small, focused on community and openly networking with like-minded folks. It most definitely has a progressive tone. We can’t offer payment for your time, but you would of course be featured. Any photos you would like to share would be great, too.
I am happy to send you a link to check out our current previous monthly issues if you are curious. It’s all rather laid back and new- we are learning as we go. Thanks in advance and keep on the skiing and living. Anytime I read about a cow or friendly neighbor I am encouraged that there are plenty of people who are sane and compassionate human beings.
Cheers, Sarah
Lovely, as always.
Sent from Yahoo Mail
Happy New Year, Ben! Always good to see a post from you in my inbox. Stay warm!
Hi Dawn, nice to hear from you. Happy New Year to you, as well. Take good care
Ben -I regularly seem to be sending you a note right after NCFARMCHICK. And I agree with her – I love reading anything you write. We had a warm December out here on the Nebraska prairie, but January is a different story. Colder than a witch’s heart. Wind chills in the minus 10-15° F range. And the damned wind hasn’t stopped blowing for a month! But fortunately, the big snows that hammered our neighboring states to the south missed us for the most part. Be well!
Papa Geno.
Hi Gene,
Thanks for stopping by, as always. Hope things are warming up a bit. I was just in Tulsa, and it was nearly 60!
❤️❤️❤️🙌🙌🙌
Hello Ben and Happy New Year! Flakes so small you’re not even certain they exist…. getting existential on Winter! 😉 xo
Is there any other way to get on Winter???
Hi Ben, thought of you last week and here you are thinking of us. Always a pleasure
Hi Ben, thought of you last week and here you are thinking of us. Always a pleasure
Hi Ben, I randomly thought of you last week and sure enough, here you are. Always a pleasure
Thank you, as always, for taking the time to let us see a bit more of the world. I know my name is in that jar, even if only because you’ve been there with me. Onward, my friend, onward…
Hi John, nice to hear from you. Please give my best to Liz. And yes, onward!
Thank you. Makes me want to pay a visit to this piece of paradise. Be well.
Hi Ben – I returned home on Friday, drained, burnt out and thoroughly exhausted from a two day trip from Cape Cod back to China, 10,000 miles of discomfort, anxiety and general bodily torture. These trips become more difficult as my odometer speeds into the mid-seventies.
I checked my e-mail shortly after dropping my suitcase and backpack to the floor and was pleased to see this post. It took me away from the exhaustion I felt into that special place that only you can take me to. This post is a beautiful piece of writing.
Not long ago you were unsure about continuing to post. Your stories are an important part of the lives of your loyal followers, me included. They bring us to a place that you hold the key to. I deeply hope that you can take a few minutes now-and-then to take us along on your journey.
Thank you and Happy New Year!
Tom Gorton
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Thanks Tom. Your kind and supportive words mean a lot to me. I hope you’re doing well.
Happy New Year, Ben!! Hope the cold is invigorating. Very nice about the mountain summit register. My teen has put out so many of those in some of the hundreds of summits he climbed. One time we dragged the whole ammo box up there for a register, so that people do not scratch their names into rocks but sign in instead. I love the stories we find in the registers. Sometimes they go back decades and have the names of folks who are no longer here. There is always a story. Hope your story a good one this year!
Thanks, Bee. I hope you’re well, wherever you are.
Always enjoy your writing. I feel like I’m out there with you but glad, this time, that I wasn’t. Too cold for me. I’m sure joining the cats by the fire was just reward for your efforts.
Your writing is always delicious. This is truly a gourmet morsel. Thank you.
Thank you, Cally
The layers and layers, and simplicity all at once, within four paragraphs. Just, brilliant and thought-full, and not, all at the same time. Superb writing.
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Thanks so much, Heidi. I’m really glad you enjoyed it.
Hi Ben, Happy New Year! Thank you for the sharing.
Love reading your writings and receiving them. Our weather has been heatwave and erratic storms such a contrast. Best wishes from Australia.
Ben….It’s December 5, 2025. I’ve been trying to send you an e-mail I wrote you this morning but it keeps bouncing back as undeliverable. Maybe you’ll receive this comment. If you do, please send me a good e-mail address if you like. -Tom Gorton in China
Where did you go? I miss you. The other day, as I walked through the bitter cold morning, I thought of you, perhaps off on a morning ski, stopping to watch the morning haze clear to a bluebird day, and I felt a longing to hear your words again. Hope you are off enjoying the brisks days.