Have you ever wondered, “Is there life under the snow?” I don’t know about you, but I have thoroughly enjoyed the snowfall this year, with more than a few hours devoted to the mundane task of shoveling the long driveway that leads up the hill to my house. Shoveling snow gives me time to be alone with my thoughts, to let them wander and roam, often into places of enchantment, mystery, and Stranger Things…
Here we are, it’s mid-January on Martha’s Vineyard, and the Island has folded in on itself. I think it is fair to say that we live in a place that is defined by summer. Right now, surrounded by snow and ice, one could say that things here are a bit “Upside Down.” The beaches are empty, the roads hushed, the skies dark and gray, and even the birds keep their vocals subdued. A cursory glance reveals a landscape that appears to be a shadowed reflection of itself, and my mind begins to wonder about the island beneath the island.
With my curiosity getting the better of me, I toss my shovel aside and look down. Lacking Superman’s X-ray vision, I am left with only one option. I kneel and, with gloved hands, I dig away the snow until I lift a handful of damp, nearly frozen leaves and look closer. Beneath the cold crust of winter, I find a world very much alive.
The leaf litter, mostly oak and beech, has formed a soft, matted quilt that covers the ground. It crackles faintly as I disturb it, but underneath, the temperature remains steady, far more stable than the air above. Snow, when it settles, acts as additional insulation, holding warmth close to the earth. This narrow band between freezing air and frozen soil is now a refuge, a hidden nucleus where winter is endured rather than escaped.
Springtails move out of my way first, and if you know how to look, on mild January days, you can find them gathering by the hundreds on the surface of the snow, tiny dark flecks that look like animated pepper grains doing backflips. They spend the winter tucked into the leaf litter, feeding on fungi and decaying plant matter, surviving on antifreeze-like proteins in their blood that prevent ice crystals from forming. When conditions are just right, they emerge, briefly, before retreating again into shelter. There, hidden amongst the leaves, they become practically invisible to human eyes.
Somewhere beneath this same quilt of leaves, fireflies are waiting. Not the blinking adults of June and July evenings, but their larvae. Small, flattened, spikey, and fierce, they spend winter hidden in the soil and leaf litter. Sharing the space with rove beetles and ground beetles, they are predators, feeding on snails, slugs, and other soft-bodied invertebrates they encounter in the Upside Down. They survive the cold by slowing their metabolism and sheltering below the frost line. Even at this stage of development, they can bioluminesce, emitting a faint, ghostly glow beneath the leaves. Light with no audience. Come spring (or for some firefly species, two springs from now), they will pupate secretly, and by early summer they will rise into the warm night air, turning backyards and field edges into constellations. Their winter survival depends entirely on what we leave behind: intact soil, damp leaf litter, pine needles, and undisturbed edges. Rake too deeply, clear too thoroughly, and the summer light show is erased months before it begins.
Finding a woolly bear caterpillar (the larva of the Isabella tiger moth) would make my day. These familiar black-and-rust colored wanderers are not fleeing winter when we encounter them in the fall; they are meeting it head-on. As temperatures drop, their bodies produce natural antifreeze compounds that protect their cells while the rest of their fuzzy bodies freeze solid, hearts stopped, metabolism on pause. Curled beneath the leaves, they can survive being frozen for weeks at a time, thawing and refreezing repeatedly as January temperatures rise and fall. When a mild day arrives, the caterpillar stirs, crawls a short distance, then settles again, waiting. My dad used to tell me the width of its bands predicts the coming winter, but the real story is more impressive: survival etched into every cell. Come spring, this humble caterpillar will spin a cocoon, metamorphose, and emerge as a moth that the great majority of us will never notice, proof that survival doesn’t always announce itself, and that some of the Island’s toughest lives carry on low, slow, and close to the ground.
And as close as I am to the ground, I feel the urge to go deeper… Earthworms descend below the frost line, their burrows becoming conduits for air and water that will matter months from now. Slugs and snails, sealed into mucous-lined chambers, wait out the cold in damp pockets of soil and wood. Even mites, nearly invisible to the naked eye, continue their quiet work, shredding organic material into pieces small enough for microbes to finish the job.
Fungi are everywhere here, though mostly unseen. Mycelial threads lace through soil and rotting wood, redistributing nutrients, exchanging resources with tree roots, and storing energy for spring. Native fungi form vast underground networks that exchange nutrients with the roots of our oaks, blueberries, and huckleberries, the plants that define the core of the Vineyard’s natural landscapes.
At last, I look up into a world that is blinding white in its brilliance. Leaving this hidden hub of activity, I know life leaves its signs. A white-footed mouse tunnels through the snow, its tracks vanishing beneath the leaf layer where it finds seeds cached months earlier. A shrew hunts relentlessly, its heart beating too fast to pause for winter, following scent trails left by insects and worms. Even the trees are involved: While their branches stand bare against the winter sky, their roots remain active, quietly respiring, waiting for longer days. A guy with a shovel futilely lifts snow from one spot only to set it down in another, repeating the process over and over again, his mind waxing poetic with the words of Robert Frost, on the woods… lovely, dark and deep. He has promises to keep, a blog to write, and a heck of a lot more shoveling to do before he sleeps
At BiodiversityWorks, things are much the same as they are in the sheltered, upside-down world. The outdoor activities of the Natural Neighbors Program have slowed to a crawl, but we are bustling in the hive that is our office, often talking about birds, native plants, habitat connectivity, and the importance of leaving natural systems intact. Winter reminds us why we do the work we do. Removing leaf litter, over-clearing yards, or disturbing soil in the cold months can unravel this unseen web of life. What looks messy to us is, in fact, essential infrastructure for biodiversity.
January on Martha’s Vineyard is often described as desolate or dormant. But the Island’s beauty is not only found on its sandy shores, but sustained in the netherworld of leaves we step over without thinking. This is where last summer’s glorious sunlight is broken down and stored. This quiet world beneath the snow ensures that when spring arrives, the Island will be ready for all that comes with it.
If you would like to find out how to promote a winter wonderland in your own backyard, consider signing up for a Natural Neighbors visit!
