MARQUETTE — “I have gone from rags to riches in the sorrow of the night; in the violence of a summer’s dream, in the chill of a wintry light,” – Bob Dylan

The silence in the nighttime air hung heavy and low. It was a deathly silence, like being in a tomb, I would imagine.

It was the coldest night I can remember in a long time.

It reminded me a great deal of some of the seemingly black and endless cold, winter nights I remember as a kid growing up in the old, rusted and frozen mining town.

The thermometer said it was colder than 15 degrees below zero.

The snow that had been soft enough to sift through my gloves a day or so ago, was now hard and crunched when I walked on it, the sound diffusing outward, like ripples spreading after a stone is dropped into a quiet pond.

It didn’t take long to feel my cheeks tighten, and the cold air kind of stung going down when I took a deep breath. I love experiencing and soaking in every season.

Suddenly, a tremendous single crack ripped through the quiet. It was one of the northern hardwoods in this stand splitting at a relatively high level up off the ground – another indication of just how cold it was.

Great-horned owls that had been hooting consistently for several nights were silent tonight. Other than the tree cracking, there was no sound beyond the beating of my own heart and the sounds of my breaths as I inhaled and exhaled.

The icy night air had penetrated the gloves on my hands that almost always keep me warm, with the cold now sinking in toward the bones of my fingers.

There were plenty of deer tracks out here, but the animals themselves had likely bedded down close to each other in some snow drift or under the branches of some cedars or hemlocks.

Last night, it had been cold too, and the sky was quite clear. I could see the planets beginning to line up in a row, an alignment expected to peak next month. The moon was up, but not bright enough to ruin the starry night sky.

Tonight was different. Smokey-white clouds covered almost the entire sky, obscuring the stars. Where the moon was, there was an opening in the cloud cover that kept closing and reopening as the clouds flickered past.

I remember that even in these horribly cold temperatures we would play outside in the snow. Our parents let us outside, we just had to be sure to dress warm enough.

This would include heavy socks, thick boots, snowsuits, hats, scarves and mittens on long strings pulled through the sleeves of our snowsuits to we wouldn’t lose them.

Our outdoor interests shifted as we got progressively older, from just walking around making and throwing snowballs, digging snow forts out of snowbanks and chewing and sucking on icicles to playing “king of the hill” and football and hockey on the snow-covered street in front of our house, under the streetlight.

In still later years, we used to “bomb” cars with snowballs or “shack” cars by grabbing onto the back bumper of vehicles and sliding on our feet behind the moving vehicles. The object was to stay on as long as we could.

Sometimes, when we’d have a half-dozen kids or more on the back of a single car, the driver would stop and get out and we’d scurry away like mice.

One night, a kid from across town shacked a car for a ride all the way back home.

We didn’t worry about being outside in the cold. We always wanted to be outside.

We also rode on plastic toboggans down steep hills and over jumps. We did the same with sleds on icy sidewalks and streets. We also would slide down hills on sidewalks just on our boots, trying to maintain our balance.

I ended up with my two front teeth broken twice and a goose egg on my forehead that I still have a bump from, thanks to those stunts.

Even if it was extremely cold, we would stay outside playing until we couldn’t bear to be out there anymore. We wanted to stay outside, and we wanted everyone else to stay out there too.

When we finally did go in, we would put our “burning cold” hands under a faucet running lukewarm water until our hands warmed up enough to take a bath or to comfortably sit in front of one of the hot air registers in the old house.

I think those kid days either thickened my blood or got me used to being outside in cold or wet weather. I am often not as cold as others when outside shoveling snow or just standing around.

My mom used to make us hot chocolate when we came in and often offered us cookies. In my teen years, I would spend a good amount of time in the winter helping my dad shovel our car out after what always seemed to be big snowfalls.

We parked on the sidewalk in the winter and when the city snowplow came by it buried the car up to the tops of the windows on the doors or higher. The snow from the street the plow churned up was often consolidated, hard and heavy.

It was those years and chores of various types that helped me develop what I realize today is a strong work ethic. I also don’t mind shoveling or blowing snow or mowing grass or other outdoors tasks.

Even back then, I used to love how quiet it might be on a wintry night outside shoveling. If somebody else was out shoveling anywhere on our street, you could hear it clearly for at least a block.

I remember dogs didn’t seem to like being outside in the cold much. They often would bark to get back in the house soon after being let out. You could hear them barking from a long distance too.

I don’t recall ever seeing a cat outside in the wintertime when I was a kid.

The past few days, during this latest cold snap, the birds seemed to be absent for much of the day, but then they all came out to the bird feeders about an hour before dark.

I even got to see a red-bellied woodpecker two days in a row that I haven’t seen since November. I watched a white-breasted nuthatch and a black-capped chickadee sitting motionless on their bird feeder perches.

They must have been conserving their energy. They sat still for so long I began to wonder if their feet were stuck – like that kid’s tongue was stuck to the flagpole in “A Christmas Story.”

But I turned my head for a quick moment to look elsewhere and when I turned back, they were both gone.

The deer have also been visiting the bird feeders, but I am not sure when. I do see them wandering in the yard at night sometimes, but not at the feeders.

By morning, there are tracks all around the bird feeding station and in single-file lines crisscrossing the yard.

I think a couple of the younger deer must have some of the same habits we had as kids. I see the tracks of the smaller deer loping and prancing around in circles in the snow.

Two young deer had played similar games of tag with a doe in our yard last fall. They would run at full speed toward an old stump and then circle around it and stop.

They would then toss their heads back and forth looking at the doe, which would also toss and lower her head toward the younger deer.

I am happy they feel at home and safe enough in our backyard to play.

The closer the night moved toward daylight, the temperature began to rise slowly, by maybe a degree or two. Eventually, the sun would appear as it rose up into the brightening blue sky.

By noon, the temperature had risen to 10 degrees below zero and minus 5 degrees by late afternoon, but it never did get above zero. A wind present throughout most of the day kept the windchills down in the minus teens or more.

It was nice to see winter make a real return. I love to experience each season in its full form. After such a long time without these decidedly sub-zero temperatures, I started to wonder if those “real winters” from way back when were gone forever.

Not only are those winters apparently alive and well, but so are the spirit, joy and memories from my long-ago kid days.

That notion all by itself makes me feel warm inside.

— — —

Outdoors North is a weekly column produced by the Michigan Department of Natural Resources on a wide range of topics important to those who enjoy and appreciate Michigan’s world-class natural resources of the Upper Peninsula.