Living on the top of an isolated mountain in southern West Virginia can be wonderful — at least during three seasons of the year.

In the spring, crocus, apple blossoms and trillium burst forth in an amazing show of spring’s beauty. In the summer, deer, wild turkey and other critters meander through the sliver of green brush where landscaped yard meets hardwood forest. And in autumn ... well, nature’s vivid display of foliage is almost overwhelming, with hues of red, yellow and orange painting the landscape like a Monet masterpiece.

But winter — let’s just say it’s not the so-called wonderland as declared in one popular song.

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Most folks who live in rural areas of the county who have to be at work — rain, sleet or snow — have four-wheel-drive vehicles. The husband and I are no exception. We know when the weather gets rough a heavy-duty SUV is needed to get out of the “boonies” and in to work.

For years, my SUV has navigated our mountainous driveway with no problems. But this season we were thrown a curve ball.

The problems started in December, when the horrifically deep snow made passage up the driveway impossible. While snow depth totals varied across the region, the measure on our mountaintop was about 2 feet. The SUV tried to move forward in the snow, but could only push it a few feet before becoming entrenched in a snow bank. It took us three days to dig out.

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I’m not sure I even remember the last time I actually made the complete drive up the mountain this year. My vehicle has slipped and spun so much this season my memory is a blur of white mush and ice.

Each time the SUV begins sliding sideways, I will glance to the right out of the passenger window, looking toward the steep, long drop-off to the Bluestone River. The mere thought of a plunge into water and ice stops the acceleration process immediately.

And so I’ve been “hiking it,” trekking up the mountain each evening and down in the mornings. I tell myself it’s good exercise. In reality I hate it.

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Preparing to watch the Saints battle the Colts in last weekend’s Super Bowl, we were a little distracted and disheartened, wondering when the snow would melt and life — or, at least, our commute up the mountain — would return to normal.

Unfortunately, things went from bad to worse.

Near the end of the game we briefly detected the faint smell of an electrical wire burning. Finding no source, we attributed it to a space heater, which we promptly unplugged.

The next day, however, the source of the smell was apparent when we discovered our refrigerator-freezer was not working, and all its contents were ruined.

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Since we’ve had no luck driving up the mountain this past week, we did not even attempt to purchase a new ’fridge. There’s no chance a delivery truck could make it up the slick, treacherous slope.

And so we moved into survival mode.

After making a run to a warehouse store last week, we carted boxes of non-perishable food items to the house via a plastic sled pulled by our ATV. It wasn’t pretty, but it beat hiking it two dozen times up and down the mountain. We’ve since discovered a can of Chef Boyardee Mini Ravioli, accompanied by a handful of chips pulled from a super-sized bag, is a tasty and enjoyable dinner. And much more satisfying than the peanut butter and crackers we dined on the day after the ’fridge died.

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When the Y2K frenzy was in high gear in late 1999, the Associated Press ran a story naming the best cities to be in when, or if, the computerized Armageddon struck. Bluefield was among a handful of municipalities named.

Although we attempted to track down the source cited in the story, a survival expert, we had no luck and could only assume he was “holed up” on his own mountain with a year’s supply of bottled water and Chef Boyardee.

But now I understand.

The people who reside in Bluefield and surrounding communities are survivalists in the truest form. No matter what Mother Nature throws at us — two feet of snow, six inches of sleet, high winds, floods or more — we face the challenge head-on, and continue with our daily lives.

Moving groceries via an ATV “sled dog” may not be conventional, but it works when no other options are available.

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Eventually, the seasons will change. Trillium will bloom, deer will graze and tree leaves will morph from green to scarlet.

Until then, we’ll survive. We’ll shovel, we’ll spin, we’ll slide. We’ll chill our bottled water in snowdrifts near the back porch. But, ultimately, we’ll make it. Despite the inconveniences and hardships, the rules of survival are in our genes.

The groundhog predicted six more weeks of winter. My guess: Snow through the end of March and into April.

It’s time to continue shoveling.

Samantha Perry is managing editor of the Daily Telegraph. Contact her at sperry@bdtonline.com