I’m not sure what to call this. This… weather pattern. It’s January. The holidays are over. We’re supposed to be in the thick of it. But I looked outside this morning and saw patches of bare grass. Grass! In January!

I moved here for winter. I know some folks complain about the snow, the cold, the darkness. But that’s the point of Bozeman, isn’t it? The crisp air that bites your nose, the heavy snow blanketing everything silent and white. The kind of winter that makes you earn your summer.

My neighbor, Agnes, was pruning her rose bushes yesterday. Rose bushes! In January. She said, “Oh, it’s lovely, isn’t it? So mild.” And I thought, “Mild? It’s unsettling, Agnes. It’s fundamentally wrong.”

I bought a new pair of Sorels in October, hopeful. They still have that fresh-out-of-the-box smell. My extra-heavy down parka? It’s been hanging in the closet, practically untouched. I feel like I’ve been catfished by the very atmosphere.

I heard someone say the other day, “Well, at least ski season is good at the higher elevations.” And I nodded, but inside, I just felt… cheated. I want the whole valley under a blanket of white. I want to shovel my driveway and then complain about it. That’s the Bozeman way.

I’m starting to think this isn’t just a fluke. This isn’t a “late winter.” This is something else entirely, and I don’t like it. Bring on the blizzards. Bring on the ice. Bring back our proper winter before I start seeing crocuses in February.

Meredith Coldsnap is a seasonal columnist who writes exclusively between October and May, which in Bozeman is most of the year. She owns fourteen fleece jackets.