The Art of the Winter Reset: From Summit to Simmer
The Art of the Winter Reset: From Summit to Simmer
There is a specific kind of silence that only happens in Maine when the snow starts sticking. It’s not just quiet; it’s heavy. It muffles the cars on the street and forces you to slow down whether you want to or not.
This weekend was a study in contrasts—a test of how much "go" I could handle before I needed the "stop."
The Push: Battling Attitash
Saturday was about the grind. I took a solo trip out to Attitash, chasing that specific feeling you only get when the wind chill hits your face and your legs start to burn. Skiing solo is different; you aren't waiting for anyone, you aren't chatting on the lift. It’s just you, the mountain, and the mental game.
At 39, with a recovering back (the infamous L5 disc), every run is a negotiation with gravity. But there is something primal about it. You need that cold wind to remind you you’re alive. You need the physical exhaustion to earn the rest that comes later.
The Pull: The Slow Sunday
If Saturday was the "Country Road" adventure, Sunday was the "Chronicles."
I woke up to fresh snow in Biddeford and headed straight for the coast. Walking East Point Sanctuary at Biddeford Pool while the flakes were coming down felt like walking through a painting. No tourists, no noise—just the gray ocean and the white rocks.
But the real reset happened back at the house.
I am not a cook. I don’t have knife skills, and I don’t own an apron. But I’ve learned that rustic cooking isn’t about precision; it’s about patience. I threw a chuck roast, some winter vegetables, and a heavy pour of red wine into the slow cooker and let it do the work for eight hours.
While the house filled up with that savory, thyme-heavy smell, I sat down in our 1920s living room and did something I rarely do: I stopped moving. I watched Little Women (1994) and Baby Boom, soaking in the aesthetic of a slower, more intentional New England life.
The Takeaway
We live in a culture that obsesses over the "hustle," but you can’t have the rugged exterior without the soft interior. You need the mountain wind to appreciate the woodstove warmth. You need the solo drive to appreciate the dinner with family.
This week, I’m carrying that Sunday stillness with me. The roast is eaten, the laundry is folded, and the battery is recharged.
See you on the road.
