After yesterday’s snowstorm, the riverside forest looks its age. Most of its trees thrived here before statehood, some when the British and French battled for ownership of the Atlantic shores. We ski along the skirt of the forest’s high-necked gown of grandmother green, the white of day old snow, and pearl gray. When a shaft of sun powers through the marine layer, a small section of the forest glows with the rich colors of first light after a storm—a once stunning dowager reclaiming her beauty with a young woman’s smile.