My sister, an avid skier, calls it the white gold. Although, in its fresh form, even and especially under a full moon's light, I always think of diamonds. Or perhaps the silver, which was mined by the ton from these mountains back in antiquity.
She hopes for a boon of this substance for the coming season, whilst I shudder at the prospect. Last year was a record; fifty feet measured on Loveland Pass alone. During the runoff, and subsequent early monsoons, I helped fill and place sandbags for some neighbors along more low-lying parts near the river. An experience I'd rather not repeat any time soon.
It goes without saying skiers, boarders, and other forms of snowbums are touching themselves in their no-no places over the local meteorological prophecy, and/or, like me, looking out their window...
I was up early with the hounds and a shovel whilst the kettle boiled. It was an opportunity to field test some recently acquired outerwear. We have ideas of places to go snowshoeing, though I was hoping to wait a bit longer. At least a month.
When the time came, I imagined I'd be brewing lapsang souchong for the circumstance, but I do not. At least not yet. I start my day with Kenyan black. Defiance. It may be autumn, coming into winter here, but it's springtime, coming into summer in parts of Africa.