March Is Coming
And Here’s What That Means
There’s a road Jenn drives once a week on her way home from a standing appointment in Meredith. It’s long and winding, and this winter it’s earned its share of frost heaves—the kind that make you slow down and grit your teeth a little; as though that will protect your shocks. For months now, she’s been navigating it slowly in the dark, headlights cutting through February’s early nights, focused on avoiding the worst of the bumps.
But this week, something shifted.
She was halfway down Pork Hill Road when she realized: it was after five o’clock, and she could still see. Not just the road in front of her, but the lake off in the distance—still lit by the dying rays of a sun that hadn’t yet gone to sleep for the day. The sky was that particular shade of winter white fading into pinks and golds, and for the first time in months, she wasn’t driving through darkness. She was driving through light.
It was amazing. And it was the first real sign that March is coming.
The Signs Are Everywhere
If you’ve lived here through a few winters, you know this moment. It’s not dramatic—no sudden thaw, no birds returning overnight. It’s quieter than that. But it’s unmistakable.
The light comes back first. On February 15th, the sun sets around 5:15pm. By March 15th? It’s closer to 6:00pm. That extra 45 minutes changes everything. Suddenly you’re not racing against the dark to finish errands. You can take the dog for a walk after dinner. You can stop on the shore of a lake and dream about putting your feet in the water again soon. You can see your house in daylight when you get home from work.
The sap buckets are already hanging on the sugar maples—metal buckets or plastic tubing snaking between trees. They’ve been up for a couple of days now, waiting. The sugarhouses aren’t quite humming yet, but they will be soon. Any day now, when the nights drop below freezing and the days climb just above it, the sap will start to run. And when it does, if you’re lucky, you’ll catch the sweet, slightly smoky smell of boiling sap drifting across a back road. It smells like hope…and breakfast.
Conversations shift, too. In February, people ask “How are you holding up?” By March, it’s “Almost there, right?” There’s a current of anticipation running under everything. We’re not just surviving anymore. We’re starting to believe in spring again.
The Catch
Here’s the thing about March, though: it’s trickier than you’d think.
February, bless it, asks nothing of you. It’s cold, it’s dark, you bundle up and accept your fate. But March? March is a tease. March makes promises it doesn’t always keep.
You’ll get a 45-degree day—warm enough to unzip your coat, warm enough to feel the sun on your face and think yes, we made it—and then you’ll wake up to four inches of snow two days later. March will give you an afternoon that feels like April and an evening that calls you right back to January. Because it’s still winter even though spring is so close you can taste it, which somehow makes the waiting harder.
It’s not mean, exactly. It’s just... persistently optimistic in a way that requires patience you’re not sure you still have.
But even with all that, March is when you start to feel the world waking up. The light is longer. The snow starts to look tired—gray and crusty and ready to quit. The lake ice begins to shift and groan. And you remember: this is temporary. Spring is coming. It always does.
What March Actually Looks Like
If you’ve been here a few years, you know what’s coming next. If you’re new—or if you’re thinking about moving here and trying to understand what “seasonal living” actually means—here’s what March looks like in practice.
First: the rugs. If you have area rugs in high-traffic zones, roll them up now. Before the mud arrives. Because it will arrive, and it will be everywhere, and you’ll be glad you preempted it.
Second: your sump pump. Check it before the real thaw kicks in. March means snowmelt, and snowmelt means water, and water means basements that weren’t problems in January suddenly need attention. A few minutes now saves you a panicked call to a plumber later.
Third: fortify your entryway. If you don’t already have a battle-station mudroom setup, now’s the time. Extra boot trays. A stack of old towels. More mats than you think you need. Think of it as preparing for a siege, except the enemy is mud and the battlefield is your front hall.
Fourth, if you care about your car looking remotely presentable—consider a car wash membership. Mud season is real, and it does not discriminate. Your vehicle will wear the evidence of every dirt road you’ve driven, and it will wear it proudly (which is to say: brownly).
And finally: stock up on whatever you need for a few weeks. Grocery runs, pharmacy trips, anything that requires driving unpaved roads—you’ll still do them, but you might not want to. Mud season has a way of making you reassess how badly you actually need that one ingredient for dinner. (Spoiler: you can substitute.)
This isn’t complaining. It’s just the reality of living somewhere that has actual seasons. The same landscape that gives you crystalline winter beauty and blazing fall color also gives you a few weeks in March and April when the roads turn to soup and you accept that clean floors are a summer luxury.
It’s part of the deal. And honestly? Most of us wouldn’t trade it.
March is hope with mud on its boots.
It’s the moment you realize the sun is still up when you thought it would be dark. It’s sap buckets and longer days and the quiet, stubborn belief that winter doesn’t get the last word.
It’s not easy, exactly. But it’s also not hard. It’s just seasonal—which means it asks you to pay attention, to adapt, to notice the shifts. And if you can do that, if you can meet March where it is instead of where you wish it were (which is May), you start to understand why people stay here. Why they love it here.
Because there’s something about seeing the lake lit up at 5pm after months of darkness that feels like the world waking up again. And that’s worth a little mud.
Here’s to life between the lakes and peaks,
—Jenn & Andrea
🥾 Keys to the Lakes
