Snow on snow
Every culture has its own word for the mesmerising flakes that fall from the sky. From Iceland to Hawaii, snow may be welcomed, feared, played with or prized. And the words to describe it are clues to how this magical phenomenon is viewed
FOKKSNØ wind-transported snow (Norwegian)
The noun ski has its origins in the Old Norse word skíð, meaning ‘cleft wood’ or ‘stick of wood’. Prehistoric skis preserved in bogs and ancient rock paintings show that hunters used skis at least 5,000 years ago. Earlier still, Stone Age hunters followed herds of reindeer and elk northwards from central Asia, travelling on skis covered with fur.
Skiing plays a crucial role in an episode during the tempestuous civil war era in Norway. After the death of King Håkon Sverresson, the king’s followers were on a mission to rescue his baby son and sole heir, who had been born in enemy territory. On a cold night in January 1206, the child was snatched by a group of loyal soldiers well used to the perils of the wilderness. They were known as birkebeinars, or ‘birch legs’, because they were so poor their shoes and gaiters were made of birch bark. A speedy escape was essential, but the party encountered a strong blizzard as they approached the mountains. Storm winds can break up snow crystals and carry them some distance as they are falling. The resulting snow is known in Norwegian as fokksnø. Fokksnø is deceptively smooth to ski on but it can be perilous, since it doesn't bind with the older layers of snow beneath it. At the slightest disturbance it can cause an avalanche.
Undaunted, two of the best birkebeinar skiers, Torstein Skevla and Skjervald Skrukka, took prince Håkon and sped through the snow over the mountain from Lillehammer to Østerdalen. They made it to safety in Nidaros (now Trondheim), the first capital city of Norway’s Christian kings. Following his dramatic rescue, Håkon IV went on to rule for 46 years, and founded a dynasty. The escapade that saved his life has inspired the modern-day Birkebeinerrennet ski marathon, which retraces the journey taken by Skevla and Skrukka from Rena to Lillehammer. During the 54km route, skiers carry a weight on their back to symbolise the baby prince.
“Fokksnø is deceptively smooth to ski on but the slightest disturbance can cause an avalanche"
PANA snow knife (Inuktitut: ᐸᓇ)
The pana ( ᐸᓇ) or ‘snow knife’ is one of the
Arctic hunter’s most valued possessions. The blades of the earliest pana were carved from polished bone, with an ivory or antler handle, but after contact with explorers, metal knives were often used. It is sometimes claimed that bone was better because it is able to transmit the sensation of the snow to the hand holding the knife. Whatever the material, the blade should be long and sharp enough to slice large blocks out from the snowbank.
This area may become the base of an iglu, with the pleasing result that the whole structure is built entirely from snow taken from within the space occupied by its walls – hence the floor is much lower than the snow outside. The snow blocks (each about 4 inches thick) are neatly placed in a circle; then the pana is used to trim the top edge of the blocks into a sloping upwards curve; it looks like the diminishing spiral of a snail shell, as opposed to a brick house where the bricks are all on one level. The second layer of blocks is laid on top, with a gentle inward curve which is again formed by chiselling away at the blocks with the pana. This inward lean becomes more acute as the walls grow higher. The bevelled edges allow each block to gain support from the previous one, and from the one below. When the last block is inserted in the apex of the roof, it must perfectly fit this tensile structure or the whole iglu could collapse.
Although made of such subtle and shifting material, these domes are wonderfully sturdy structures: the snow provides a good mortar as well as bricks. Where light can be seen through the cracks, a little more snow is added then swiftly rubbed in with the flat blade of the pana ( known as ‘chinking’). Once people settle inside, the warmth of bodies combined with the cold wind outside will create a layer of ice to ‘set’ the snow. A place to find shelter and rest, a microcosm of the wider community, the iglu is also where stories are told in the evenings: hunting histories and founding myths passed on by word of mouth. The past becomes the present here. A knife can sever but it can also build. »
JÄÄTEE ice road (Estonian)
In wintertime, roads appear over the frozen surface of seas, lakes and rivers in Estonia. On these freeways, there’s nothing but whiteness as far as the horizon, perhaps a fringe of dark conifers in the rear-view mirror, and total silence. This makes for an eerie driving experience on the route which runs for 26km from the port of Rohukula on the mainland across the Baltic Sea to the island of Hiiumaa. Here, on Europe’s longest jäätee, there are few markings to follow. A car spins along in the tracks made by previous vehicles, passing an occasional traffic sign or guided by large juniper branches, ‘planted’ upright to indicate the edges of the road. It is both a relief and a disappointment when Hiiumaa’s coastline appears. The meditative skyline and the slim silver jäätee are soon replaced by salted tarmac and slushy roundabouts, and all the messy dockside infrastructure of tollgates, portakabins, streetlamps and telegraph poles.
The ice must be at least 22cm thick before the jäätee is opened to traffic. As a result, it’s unlikely to stay open all winter and, in 2015, it didn't open at all. Estonia is one of the smallest countries in the world, and keeping a connection between the mainland and the islands is vital, especially when the ferries that chart this route in summer are enjoying a long hibernation.
IMMIAQ melted ice or snow; beer (Greenlandic)
In the distant past, people came to Greenland’s dynamic coastline from lands to the east and west and settled here, even though survival was doubtful. With no means of growing crops on the barren rocks, these homes were a temporary refuge – often no more than a base from which to set off on expeditions to seek food. A hunter had to be self-reliant – carrying all the supplies that might be needed on their sled. But there was no need to bring drinking water when everywhere fresh snow and ice could be collected and melted over the fire. Thus the Greenlandic word immiaq, meaning melted ice or snow, also began to refer to drinking water.
In the 19th century, food imports began to arrive in Greenland at the demand of Danish settlers and soon, people were referring to other drinks as immiaq, too. Home-brewed beer was drunk by many hunting families. In 2012, a small brewery was established in Ilulissat, not far from the terminus of one of Greenland’s fastest-moving glaciers. Brewery Immiaq prepares a range of beers, from a dark, silky Christmas beer to a light pink pilsner. Nowadays, its bottles are raised to the lips of grateful tourists and climate scientists in hotel bars overlooking a sea of icebergs.
HAU KEA white snow, snow (Hawaiian)
In Hawaii’s tropical archipelago, snow is most likely to be found on a simmering volcanic crater. In winter, the temperature at the summit of Mauna Kea (white mountain) drops to below freezing. Up there, you’re closer to the planets, the sun and the stars – it’s no surprise that today, the University of Hawaii has a worldclass astronomy facility and many of the observatory instruments are located on the summit of Mauna Kea. In 2014, Mauna Kea was selected as the proposed location for another instrument – the giant Thirty Meter Telescope. But many believe that the mountain is sacred and do not wish to see the site developed further. Environmentalists are concerned about rare native bird populations, and, in 2015, demonstrations began against construction (which is still not underway).
Protest songs were sung in Hawaiian, a richly polysemous language in which a word or phrase can have many meanings. Hau means snow, but it can also mean anything cold (ice, frost, dew); a cool breeze; a type of mammoth; a hibiscus tree with heart-shaped leaves ( Hibiscus tiliaceus); mother of pearl; or a pumice stone. Only the term hau kea (snow white) exclusively denotes what we think of as ‘snow’. This expansive approach to the material world can also be found in the writings of Johannes Kepler, a 17th-century German scientist who investigated the vast reaches of the solar system. He made a connection between huge masses of burning hydrogen and the microscopic forms of frozen crystals. After charting the elliptical movements of the planets, Kepler moved on to investigate snow, writing that it too ‘falls from the heavens and looks like the stars’. Perhaps instead of looking through the Thirty Meter Telescope, humans only need to climb the peak of Mauna Kea on a winter evening – singing a song of solidarity and celebration – to understand the stars. »
“Hau means snow, but it can also mean a cool breeze, a hibiscus tree, mother of pearl or a pumice stone"
KUNSTSCHNEE artistic snow (German)
How often do humans find their emotions mirrored in the weather? Even in makebelieve, we have learnt to respond to the tug of a meteorological metaphor. On a stage or film set, a winter landscape can usher in a cool mood or evoke chilly emotional endings. But can the subtle nature of snow itself ever be convincingly replicated? The German term kunstschnee perfectly captures the fine art that lies behind winter illusions, such as dry ice and fake snow.
With kunstschnee, a designer can ‘dress’ a location precisely, with as much depth or density as the plot requires. Snow can be made to fall on cue at any time of day or night, anywhere in the world. Fake flakes can be tinted red to convey the carnage on a Napoleonic battlefield, or grey for the ordure of a Victorian city. Spain can become Spitzbergen, Ealing can look like Everest.
When it was decided that the denouement of Blade Runner 2049, would be a snow scene, special effects supervisor Gerd Nefzer called one of the main players in the field, Snow Business (they have around 150 varieties of environmentally-friendly kunstschnee).
The script has snow falling softly on replicant police officer K (Ryan Gosling) at the moment he meets his end; he opens his hand to the sky and gently catches a tiny snowflake in his palm. “That’s basically a mix of water and washing up liquid,” says Lucien Stephenson, Snow Business Managing Director. Fittingly for a film about authenticity and its replication, the snow was not real (Nefzer won an Oscar for Best Visual Effects). Can we suspend our disbelief when we know that the snow in a movie is fake? Is it any more disappointing to discover a painted studio set, a green screen or an actor feigning love? Now that snow is becoming more of a rarity in winter, kunstschnee is moving from film studios to the ski resorts. Will there be any real snow at all when the year 2049 arrives?
For more on how Hollywood conjures up its snowy scenes and how to make your own fake snow, turn to Miscellany on p75.