There’s something about the low November light that I love. That hour at the end of the day when the sun has already slipped behind the ridge, the angles sharpen, the air goes cold, and everything feels a little quieter. Skiing then, in that dim, blue-edged light, feels truer somehow. The mountains aren’t trying to impress you. They’re just there, stripped back, asking you to meet them as they are.
Early winter in Colorado is like that. Quiet. Liminal. A season that doesn’t quite believe in itself yet. There isn’t enough natural snow at the trailheads this year, but the thin white ribbon of manmade snow at our local hill is enough to get those first turns in. It’s not glamorous or midwinter-hero snow, but there’s something honest about it. A ritual. A way of saying, I’m still here. I’m ready when you are.
Up north, in Utqiaġvik, Alaska, the change is even more dramatic. The sun set this year on November 18 at 1:36 p.m., and it will not rise again until late January. I have never experienced the polar night myself, but I’m fascinated by it. The idea of living through weeks of blue twilight and long, unbroken darkness feels both unsettling and beautiful. A deep winter pause. A world turned inward. I imagine it must change the way time feels, and maybe even the way a person pays attention.
The closest thing we have right now is these late afternoons at our local hill. Just the last light of the day brushing the snow, the sky shifting from gold to ash to blue, and everything slowly dimming. Not even close to the magnitude of the Arctic, but it hints at the same quiet. The same slowing. The same invitation to notice more with less light.
This evening I clicked in for a couple of laps at Eldora as the last of the daylight slid sideways across the hills. The manmade snow had that pale early-season sheen, not lit by floodlights and not dark either, just held in the soft blue of a winter afternoon turning into evening. The trees stood black against the sky. The clouds were doing their November thing, streaked and restless. It was quiet enough to hear every edge set and every breath. Nothing glamorous or heroic. Just simple skiing in thin light, the best kind of beginning.
Maybe that’s what this season is for: not chasing big objectives or perfect conditions, but noticing what still glows when everything else gets dim. A kind of winter honesty. A slower pace. A little more gratitude for whatever light we get, however briefly it appears.
This is the dark time of year. And there’s something beautiful about learning how to move through it, slowly and deliberately, with a bit of softness toward yourself and the world.