Last Tuesday, I returned from West Yellowstone to a barren Vermont, devoid of any form of snow. The next morning, I quickly arose and glanced at Bolton Mountain, which I can see from my bedroom window. There was some snow, but it was up high, maybe around three thousand feet. We got a dusting of snow on a few nights last week, but nothing major. The forecast looked bleak. Cold, but little snow. For a skier, it is a depressing outlook.

Flash forward to today. New England has just survived one of the top ten snowstorms of the past one hundred plus years. Thirty-three inches were recorded in Underhill, about a fifteen-minute drive north from my house in Jericho. Most of the state received anywhere between fifteen and twenty-five inches of snow. A review of the storm's activities, as they related to me:

Friday night: Forecast is for a few inches in my neck of the woods. Probably not enough to ski on at the biathlon range. Starting to wish that I lived in New Jersey, of all places. Skied at Bolton Valley Resort on rock skis, but almost crashed hitting so many rocks on the downhills.

Saturday morning: Skies start turning gray. Drive to the range for a VO2 max hill-bounding workout, which was planned regardless of snow. Flakes start to fall, one by one piling up on the dirt road that I have to complete my workout. They gather, attracting friends and extended family. Soon it is a family reunion of snowflakes five inches deep. Ruined my VO2 max running workout, but certainly made my day.

Saturday night: Studying for final exams. Snow is falling at the rate of two inches an hour. Very powdery. My car is almost to the point of invisible.

Sunday morning: Remember that view of Bolton Mountain? Well, that same view has become whitewashed in two feet of new snow. Grab the skis and run out the door. Skating probably impossible, so I choose classic skiing with Toko Light Blue for wax. Great ski, but felt more like one of the Birkebeiners carrying Prince Haakon to safety. The snow was so powdery that I had no flotation, so I was reduced to basic snowshoeing with classic skis. No complaining, though, because there are two feet of snow!

That is exactly how things played out. No dramatizations, really. In literally one weekend, my outlook on life had changed dramatically. Christmas (or, insert other culturally important holiday in which wishes are granted) should have happened this past weekend.

Peace,
Brian