A foot of snow fell on Sunday and it was coming down hard when I started shoveling out the RV. The forecast was for an additional 11" overnight. Somewhere in the midst of my efforts, the idea of skipping out on Monday's responsibilities was planted.
That seed quickly took root and grew. The daughter won't miss school and the wife has a powder aversion. I found my son and told him that tomorrow he was doing P.E. with his dad.
RV cleaned off and shoveled out, we clambered into our bunks and dreamt of soft white turns.
When the alarm brought me back, I opened ski report on my phone as I tried to focus my eyes. 23 degrees. 23 twice? I rubbed my eyes and looked again. 23" fell overnight. I've rarely been this excited to get up in the morning.
Opening the motor home, snow brushed the bottom of the door. I had to pull my son over the snow to the plowed road. Although we were early, the line had already started to form. He looked quizzically at the guy behind us wearing a snorkel, then up at me. I started to worry about losing him under all the snow. 3 feet is a lot of new snow, especially when you're barely 3 feet tall. The plan: He would ski in my tracks and yell if he fell.
Nothing else was said. We rode the chair in silence. First run was groomed, which meant only 2 feet of new snow. Good warm up lap. We both needed bigger helmets to accommodate our smiles.
On the 2nd chair ride, we surveyed the scene. The hill looked like a winterland groundhog prairie. Skiers and snowboards alike were postholed all over the mountain trying to dig their way out.
The rest of the day was spent finding the steepest runs and trying to stay ahead of the other powder hounds. Lap after lap, we dropped from pillow to snowy pillow. My son broke the silence. "Dad. This is like a dream."
Three feet of snow in a day is epic. An unexpected three feet, even better. Being at the right place at the right time is a dream. And the exceptionally lucky get to experience it all with their son when the stars align.
