Arctic Wednesdays 2026: Week 2 Post-Trip Blog

Kayla Duxbury
Third Grade Teacher
Epping Elementary School

 A few weeks ago, I finally checked something off my New England bucket list: a winter visit to the Mount Washington Observatory. I’d read all the superlatives—home of the world’s worst weather, legendary winds, whiteout conditions—but experiencing it firsthand was something else entirely.

The adventure started at the base of the mountain, where the landscape already felt stark and otherworldly. Instead of driving up the Auto Road, winter visitors take a snowcat—an enclosed, tank-like vehicle with massive treads designed to crawl over deep snow and ice. Climbing aboard felt like boarding a research expedition rather than a sightseeing trip, which honestly set the perfect tone.

The snowcat ride itself was an experience. As we climbed higher, trees thinned out and the terrain turned increasingly rugged. Wind-driven snow streaked across the windows, sometimes sideways, sometimes upward, defying gravity. The driver narrated parts of the ascent, pointing out landmarks that were mostly invisible to us, buried under snow and cloud. Every so often, the snowcat would tilt at an angle that made you acutely aware of how steep and exposed the mountain really is. It was equal parts thrilling and humbling.

When we finally reached the summit, the conditions made it immediately clear why Mount Washington has its reputation. The wind was relentless—howling, and vibrating through the building. Stepping outside required intentional effort; even short walks felt like pushing against an invisible wall. Visibility was extremely low, the world reduced to shades of white and gray, with the horizon completely erased. Any sense of scale disappeared, making it feel like we were standing at the edge of nowhere.

Exploring the observatory grounds in those conditions was surreal. Snow and ice coated nearly every surface, sculpted into sharp ridges and smooth waves by constant wind. Signs and railings were partially entombed, and exposed structures were wrapped in thick rime ice, frozen mid-motion like abstract art. The weather instruments—anemometers, towers, and sensors—looked battle-hardened, quietly doing their job in an environment that felt almost hostile.

Inside the observatory, the contrast was striking. Warm air, humming equipment, and the steady focus of science provided a sense of calm refuge. We learned about the history of the observatory, the meteorologists who live and work there during shifts, and the extreme data collected on this mountain over decades. Knowing that people routinely endure weeks of these conditions to study the atmosphere gave me a whole new respect for both the place and the people who call it their workplace.

What stuck with me most wasn’t a sweeping view but the feeling of being in a place where nature is completely in charge. The high winds and low visibility stripped the experience down to its essentials: sound, cold, movement, and resilience. Mount Washington didn’t try to impress us with beauty that afternoon; instead, it reminded us how small we are and how powerful the environment can be.

As the snowcat carried us back down the mountain, descending out of the clouds and into clearer air, I felt a mix of relief and gratitude. Visiting the Mount Washington Observatory in winter isn’t about perfect photos or panoramic vistas. It’s about experiencing one of the most extreme environments in the Northeast and walking away with a deeper appreciation for the science, the history, and the raw force of weather itself. And honestly? I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.