A hard rain drummed the roof of my house the last week of October, and the deer that had been feeding on wild apples from trees that circle the house retreated to the deep woods to wait out the storm. All told, more than 5 inches of rain fell on our hill in just a few days, creating the paradox of an October called both the “driest” and “wettest” in recent history.

Vermont is where I sit, but people everywhere — whether high plains, deserts or coastal cities — have a sometimes-troubled love affair with water. We need it to stay alive, but too much of it, or the wrong kind, will kill us outright or drown our cars and wash our homes away. Anyone who has read Coleridge can paraphrase a version of these lines from Rime of the Ancient Mariner:

Water, water every where,

And all the boards did shrink;

Water, water everywhere,

Nor any drop to drink.

Is it horror for the mariner’s plight or just the cadence of the enchanting words that fix that haunting jingle in our minds?

Vermont is rich with water, even in times of drought. When springs run dry, water still runs beneath the surface in fractures and aquifers that we reach by digging or drilling. Dry times are rare. Most of the year the land sparkles with rivers and streams and brooks, with lakes and ponds and pools. In April, water gushes so freely from outcrops that it’s impossible not to become complacent about this vital resource. To the Vermonters I know, nothing is more local than our water; but most Americans live in cities or suburbs and drink water pumped from reservoirs often far away. Sometimes there are failures here, but when a power outage stalls our pumps or when our springs run dry, there is always someone nearby with a generator and water to share. Most of our water troubles come from too much of it, when cloudbursts cut canyons into our dusty roads, when weeks of rain drown our fields and gardens. We have a complicated relationship with water, and at the general store we talk about it every day.

We bought land for our house way back in 1976. For the first two summers we camped, two weeks at a time, in a rude cabin we could reach by driving uphill through a hayfield into a grove of trees. There was no electricity and no power for our family of four, the youngest still in diapers. We spent our days exploring the land, clearing brush and, of course, questing for water. We filled jugs for drinking and cooking from a neighbor’s hose and lugged what we needed for bathing and dishes uphill from a stream. When we eventually sited the house on top of a hill, we needed to drill a well. From our home in Massachusetts we heard news that at 200 feet we had no water, nor at 300 or 400. We kept going, the money flying from our bank account into the driller’s hands, and finally at 525 feet, we hit water, plenty of it. In Massachusetts, we had taken water for granted.

When I was a teenager, I hiked in the White Mountains where it was still safe to drink from streams. I carried a canteen, but what I liked best was to kneel reverently at a pool and sip, and no matter where I stopped to drink, that water would be the best I’d ever tasted. I know I’m on shaky ground when I romanticize my youth, but I know I am unlikely to experience that particular joy ever again.

The specter of climate change lurks beneath these idle thoughts, but for now I’m still struck by the local phenomenon of a dry/wet October, and I wonder what winter has in store. 2017 has been a year to think about water. Winter brought us only moderate snowfall, most of it late in the season, but our spring was wet and cool. July opened with torrential rains and road damage so widespread that today some of it still lies unrepaired, and several weeks of damp weather followed. August and September arrived with different fare, a stunning parade of blue skies and mild days so long that we were able to forget the wet hayfields and sodden woods that had delayed our work all summer.

It was October when I began these wet thoughts. They’ve lasted into November, and even now the rain drums on my roof. Two weeks ago from a high spot I looked east and saw a smear of snow on the top of Mount Moosilauke and beyond, the side of Lafayette painted white. Soon we will have our own snow, and I can’t help thinking about what those 5 inches of rain in late October (and more now in November) would have looked like if they had fallen as snow.

We love snow in Vermont. The first serious snowfall charms us with its pristine cloak, and we hardly mind the work entailed in clearing our steps and windshields and roads. Depending on our tolerance, this feeling will last for weeks or months because there are skis and sleds and snowshoes to use. Even those who prefer to stay indoors know the stunning beauty of snow-draped trees on moonlit nights. I have a high tolerance for snow and will look hopefully at a winter sky because every new snow presents a fresh canvas for animal tracks. But those of us with Nordic hearts know there is a point when there has been too much. When snow slides from roofs into piles higher than windows, when roads narrow to a single track, our thoughts turn to lilacs, warm days, and the humming of bees, knowing that winter is not yet done with us.

I’ve raced ahead of myself with thoughts of snow. Outside, it’s barely November. The leaves are slick on the ground, their colors muted. The most surprising color I see is green, lush green of grass in a gasp of growth, and the lurid green of mossy rocks, all thanks to this persistent rain.

Jonathan Stableford lives in Strafford. He can be reached at jon.stableford@gmail.com.