This is the part of winter I both love and hate.

The first snow is often beautiful, masking the monotonus browns of dead leaves and grass; doubling the brightness of the sun, making things new, changing their shape, and muffling the everyday sounds.

But before the ground freezes, and the air temperature drops to blustery, it is dangerous to be outside. Ice forms on bridges, and at the edges of roads where runoff from the noon thaw puddles and remains until the dusk freeze. Streams and lakes begin to wear a thin layer of ice on the surface that catches the snow, camoflaging its frailty and tricking youngsters into venturing too close.

The snow turns mushy and an ugly brown seeps through the pristine whiteness, blotching the otherwise perfect canvas. It slowly seeps into your boots, socks, and pant legs, and cakes there, hanging on to you for warmth. It slowly takes away the heat from your extremities, and like a frog in a cooking pot, you never notice the change in temperature until you suddenly shiver.