By Mitch Mode
Special to the Star Journal

I have grown weary of the meteorological term “wintry mix.” As in, “Tonight’s weather will bring a wintery mix of snow, freezing rain, sleet, hail, cats and dogs and the wrath of Thor. Seek shelter if needed.” Winter weather is simple, elemental: Cold. Snow. Period. Rain, sleet and drizzle are not wintry weather nor should they be mixed thereof. Those are for other seasons. Spring comes to mind, the fabled April showers and such; precipitation that is not white.

I am of the mind that a wintry mix would best be used to describe a cocktail; a generous shot or two of rye whisky, an ice cube, bitters (for the name not the flavor), garnish to suit; a libation best employed to temper any sulkiness as snow falls in April and lake ice seems destined to cover water into May. Open water fishing seems imperiled at this date though odds are it’ll be fine come June.

We’ve heard the term “wintry mix” applied to the weather as March lurched to April and, soon, April to May. Wisconsin weather, never easy to divine, seems unusually topsy-turvy.

On a night this week, snow fell, heavy and damp and near rain. Astonishing large flakes tumbled out of the darkness in a slow motion descent to the grass as if in a snow globe. The flakes seemed sized as silver dollars and glowed star-bright white.

It was incredibly beautiful, the falling snow in the black night. It was calm and peaceful, no matter that it was mid April and springtime. We let the dogs out and when they came in their backs were mottled with large, wet snowflakes. They shook themselves and the flakes flicked in the entryway then melted on the floor.

I watched the snowfall from the kitchen table and told Sally, “I think we should mix up a cocktail, call it the Wintry Mix.” She looked at me in puzzlement, not the first time for that, and I explained why I thought the term best describes a drink rather than the weather.

The snow melted off by noon and by the weekend it was in the sixties and felt like spring.

It has been that way this spring, the temperature rising and falling like the EKG readings of a patient in distress, a jagged series of peaks and valleys in which is writ the story of the weather and in that the summary of a season. The old wives tale that the first robin gets snowed on three times has fallen to disrepute, the old wives shamed; the first robin has been snowed on a dozen times. And my standard that small lakes are ice free on or about tax day has been tossed to the winds.

So it goes. If you want predictability and consistency in the weather do not look for it in the Northwoods.

There is an old maxim, credited to the Norwegians, that there is no such thing as bad weather just bad clothing. I’ve modified it: There is no such thing as bad weather just bad attitudes. This is a personal reminder to me to shape up and not go to dark whining. I counsel myself on this on days of cloud and chill. I leave the house and see what the day brings. At the risk of scorn and disparagement I have to admit I’ve enjoyed the heck out of the past weeks of up and down weather.

I skied a few weeks ago on crusty remnant snow, skied old logging roads that weave the land, skis fighting for purchase on the crust, running like the wind on the downhills, an exhilarating morning before the sun warmed the snow and turned it to mush.

I walked Bella on a clear, cold Sunday morning, walked the woods where we hunt, came to the edge of small stream that was covered with ice and snow. I walked on the ice covered creek and at a moment stopped and stood. I could hear, beneath my feet, beneath the ice, hidden by the snow, I could hear the sound of water moving, could hear the song of fast water as it rushed toward spring. I stood, silent and enthralled and listened to the sound of the torrent under my boots.

Bella flushed three woodcock from the soft, snow-free duff. The birds rose to the spring sunshine and the sunlight lighted the birds and for the instant I could see the buff-colored feather, the glint of the wild eye. Then they were gone.

We walked, Bella and I, along the river where the April snow was fresh and white as in January and the river water ran dark and powerful. On the far shore two sandhill cranes regarded us and as we walked their prehistoric call lifted and filled the air.

There were areas of sharp, crusty ice and Bella nicked her foot on the ice; her tracks showed a tab of blood, red on the snow. We cut the walk short, went to the truck, Bella running as if nothing was wrong and I was taken by the indomitable spirit of dogs. For dogs there are no bad days, no bad weather, no bad attitudes, nothing but joy in the chill air.

I have walked the lands in the false spring we’re having. I have seen loons on the river, a bobcat cross the road, seen shaggy deer in the thickets. I have watched Bella go rock-solid pointing a woodcock, smelled the sweet mist of maple syrup on the boiler, felt the sting of a cold wind and hunkered up in the drizzle of a cool April day. I’ve seen the litter of thick white pine branches snapped off under the weight of ice. I have slipped on the ice and fallen, hard, have slogged in the muck and mud.

It’s been a great spring; I have no regrets. Except, perhaps, not having a special cocktail, a Wintry Mix, to ease into the evening.

An assortment of outdoor products is available at Mel’s Trading Post, downtown Rhinelander. Call 715-362-5800.