Newsletter #179 - Snow in April
It might be over soon
There's a particular cruelty to April snow that February’s blizzards could never match.
By April, you've endured months of darkness. You've survived the bitter cold that seeps into your bones. You've watched your breath crystallize in front of your face for what feels like an eternity.
And then, just when you see the first hesitant buds, just when you've put away your heaviest coat, just when you dare to believe you've made it through—it comes again. White. Silent. Merciless.
April snow doesn't just fall. It buries.
I've photographed April snow for years now. These photographs are records of nature's most sadistic joke: flowers crushed under unexpected weight, tree branches snapping after daring to start to blossom.
The light is different in these photographs. April snow captures a specific quality of despair—the kind that comes not from the hardship itself but from the false promise that the hardship was over.
It's not the pain that destroys you; it's the hope that preceded it.
I remember standing in my field a few Aprils ago, camera in hand, watching snow accumulate on the redbuds that had begun to open just days before. Their magenta heads bowed, not in reverence, but defeat.
People talk about the beauty of seasons changing. They write poems about winter's last gasp. They call it magical.
They lie.
There is nothing poetic about April snow. It's simply the universe reminding you that optimism is a mistake, that progress is an illusion, that comfort cannot be trusted.
My collection of April snow photographs grows each year. A catalog of broken promises. A gallery of dashed hopes. Each image a monument to the foolishness of believing that things might actually improve.
Did you take your snow tires off last week? This is your fault! Did you attach your garden hose? You must be new here.
I should note that by “here” I mean in USDA Plant Hardiness Zone 5b. My bitter reflections on April snow might only resonate with those who live in this zone or similar ones outside the US. If you're reading this from Zone 7 or higher, you're probably sipping iced coffee on your mostly leafed-out patio right now, wondering why I’m talking about detached garden hoses. If you're in Zone 3, you might consider April snow a merciful reprieve from whatever frigid horrors you’ve had to live through the past few months.
But here in Zone 5b, hopes and dreams are being buried.
Whenever anyone starts talking about it being spring before May 1st, I always say, “Not until May 1st.” But really, it’s May 15 if you want to be safe.
Support this Newsletter
Do you enjoy my work? Do these stories and photographs cheer you up? Then please consider becoming a paid subscriber, join my Patreon or just send me a Venmo. Your financial support helps keep these letters coming.
You can also support this newsletter by hitting the “like” button or sharing it with a friend.
Thank you!
Kristen Neufeld is sorry if it snows again. She just took the road salt out of her trunk.
Zach Vitale is stocking up on Claritin.
Support: Substack / Patreon / Venmo
noahkalina.com / Instagram / Threads / YouTube / Bluesky / Patreon
Your post reminds me of the opening lines of The Wasteland; “April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
memory and desire, stirring
dull roots with spring rain.”
5B in April is a wild ride. I went to bed last night and panicked that I hadn't checked the low temps and had the hose attached...