Midwinter Interlude

This article was originally published in the Feb. 9, 1976 issue of PAW.

It’s another ugly mid-January afternoon. The motif is gray. A solid gray sky with a ceiling so low it brushes the top of the Chapel casts a chilly haze of gray light over the campus. Weary undergraduates are slouching toward Firestone Library or to final exams in McCosh. One turns to another, hope, despite himself, in his voice. “Did you hear the forecast for today?” he asks. The other glances at the sky, then back again, and sneers, “Rain.” 

When one has the exam-period blues, it’s little things that hurt the most. Like bad weather. Especially bad weather. And especially when all there is is bad weather, day after day. The precipitation begins at about 3 P.M., but instead of the predicted rain, it starts out as a slight flurry of snow. “Won’t stick,” a sophomore mutters through his muffler. “Turn to rain in a minute,” a junior decides, peering out his window as he types an overdue paper. Hours later, when both emerge for dinner, they are surprised. “It’s really snow!”

There are more than three inches of the stuff, coating the ground and the buildings, piled along tree branches, softening the harsh outlines of the outdoor sculpture. At night a full moon nods over the unexpected scene and, a rarity for Princeton, a few stars show themselves. The campus remains quiet for a few more hours while the snow finishes falling and students complete another evening’s studying. Then, free for the night, the place comes alive.

The first snowball misses its mark, but is immediately missed by a barrage, and soon dozens of minor skirmishes spring up all over campus. Mundane fighters keep to the ground, but it takes strategists only a short time to discover and man secure rooftop positions to mount ambushes. In some cases, the guerillas are successful. A Hamilton Hall troop waits patiently for the unwary to venture into the small courtyard, then attacks viciously, and withdraws into the rooftop shadows. But the Campbell Hall irregulars, less fortunate, are spotted before they can do much damage and drubbed with snowballs. While rumors spread of a major engagement at Wilson College, snow-caked casualties of previous fights wend homeward, wet but feeling victorious. 

Another kind of sport has drawn a large audience, and an impressive number of participants, in noisy Holder Courtyard. Opened with appropriate ceremony (someone improvised a small rocket and set it off), the traditional Nude Olympics are taking place. The crowd quiets down a moment as the announcer stands in the middle of the courtyard with a large cardboard megaphone and gives the number of the entry whose delegates will run next. A door bursts open and three or four pink men, wearing only shoes and scarves, sprint across the courtyard to the cheers of the spectators. They wave as they disappear back into the dorm. 

Two underclassmen in the audience are overwhelmed. “Come on,” one says to the other. “We’ll never have the chance again.” They vanish and reappear a few seconds later, naked. They run around the inside perimeter of the courtyard, beaming regally and acknowledging the applause of the crowd. Some Olympic athletes are not as lucky. On one dash across the courtyard, a runner slips quite near his goal and slides the rest of the way in a sitting position. A few spectators groan in sympathy, but most laugh. The disgraced sprinter is helped to his feet and quickly jumps into the obscurity of the entryway. 

Not far from the Holder arena, a bumpy trail has been blazed down the side of Brown hill facing Dillon gym. About a dozen students are “traying it”: sliding down on Commons plastic food trays, large size. There are two methods of going down. The less adventurous take a short running start, slip the tray underneath their seat, and ride down the trail in a sitting position, knees together and close to the chest. But the real aficionados take a longer start and then throw themselves belly down on their trays, hurtling downhill toward the large pin oak that stands inexplicably at the end of the trail. Trays are passed around and the timid made to try at least once. Everyone laughs. 

On another side of the gym from Brown, three amateur sculptors are putting the finishing touches on a new creation. It is a large Snoopy, one ear standing up, a quizzical expression on his face. Admirers gather around. “That’s really good. Which one of you is an artist?” “None of us, really. We just like to fool around.”

As it grows late, the wild yells of snowball soldiers and nude trackmen are heard less frequently. The Brown hill traying party diminishes, and in many places only scuffmarks and footprints remain in the snow to reveal previous activity. The Snoopy sculpture is deserted as I pass by on my way to my room, my Commons tray under my arm, and the snow dog seems pensive. He looks eastward, and I follow his gaze, my thoughts wandering. 

Princeton weather being what it is, I know the snow will melt the next day. Some grand gesture, I feel, has to be made. The snow dog directs my eyes toward the Princeton Inn and…the golf course! I remember with a start that the steppes and longest hills are there, the potential for the wildest traying, and without a second thought, I’m off. 

It’s quiet on the golf course, and all the best trails lead to an unfrozen stream. One has to dive off his tray while it is speeding streamward to avoid a plunge. I take the trail a dozen times, rolling off at the last moment and hearing the tray clatter as it hits the stony stream, and then climbing back up the slope, snow covered and out of breath. Slowly the stars dim and a barely discernible pink glow begins to outline the horizon. 

Finally, it is time to return. Already the gutters are swirling with dirty water and slush. As I pass the snow dog, I see his head has been detached and lies in pieces. Bare spots are showing on the Brown hill trail. The Nassau Hall bell strikes six. 

In two days, the snowfall is a memory. One undergraduate turns to another as he trudges to an exam. “Did you hear the forecast?” In answer, a disdainful look. “Rain.” But he is wrong. To everyone’s surprise it snows again. One world-weary senior watches from a window in Firestone as the flakes fall thickly and says, “Wouldn’t it be great if it turned out to be a huge storm and we were snowed in so deeply exams were cancelled and we had to burn our books for fuel?” Outside, the snow keeps falling.