In the late afternoon light, the woods of the White Mountain National Forest appear quiet at first, muted by a blanket of soft, fresh snow. All I hear is my own breath and the swish of my cross-country skis as I push my way through the tracks. My husband is ahead of me, trudging up the hill on his skis, where the cross-country path divides into two separate trails. I catch up to him, panting. It’s only 6 degrees out, but I am uncomfortably warm, and wishing I hadn’t worn such a thick coat. At the point where the trails diverge, there is a small stream, partially frozen. We stand where we are, not speaking as we take in the view, as the sounds of the forest slowly come to life around us: the bubbling stream, the squirrels rustling in the trees above us. A red cardinal hops down the …