People in Maine always say that it snows one last time at the end of April, right when you think winter is all over and you’ve fully stepped over the line into a new season. They know they’re going to be cheated out of their spring, they know it’s going to snow one last time.
After a stretch of nice-ish, sunny (sort of) days, it snowed again. It is April 26th. I am riding on a bus down to Boston Logan. Snow is piling up on the roadway, traffic is crawling forward, snow plows have been re-revved up and called back into action.
This is the end of winter.
Winter here doesn’t end at the equinox. It doesn’t end with the great Kenduskeag canoe race, it doesn’t even end when you’ve had multiple weeks of warm-ish days. It ends when it snows one last time when nobody expects it, when winter gurgles out its final, spiteful death rattle.
The perfect day for riding away.