“Snow is Mother Nature’s spit.”
So observes the gap-toothed six year old in the grocery store line, snow not spitting but dumping down on the sidewalk and streets outside. Her parents roll their eyes, her pops prodding her with a follow-up question.
“What’s rain then?”
Without missing a beat, his daughter answers, “Mother Nature crying.”
No one argues. The pre-season deluge of stormy weather, cold November rain and early December showers, caused many a seasoned local to shed a tear or two.
But now it’s on.
We stare out the window, past the gossip magazines and towards the real news framed in front of us. The snow, whether best characterized as spit, salt, confetti or Jack Frost’s flaking dry-scalp, is sticking.
The kid in the shopping cart has summarily shut her dad up. Head and shoulders can do nothing but shrug and nod in anticipation for the coming powder day.
“Okay, kiddo. Snow is Mother Nature’s spit.”
We look out the biggest big-screen in town at the greatest show on Earth, snow in our hometown, inches of accumulating white stuff in our backyards. Like Pavlov’s dog, we could use a napkin.
Mother Nature may be in a spit-fight with our stoic local mountain, positively salivating over the terrain Papa Red,Uncles Granite, Robbie, Grey have to offer, but for our part, our faces are fresh and ruddy, eyes dry if not a little weary. It’s been a few big days in a row here.
Shrouded in thick grey clouds and approaching darkness, Red is wrapped in a loosely fitted Snuggie of snow and mystery, Muumuu-like snow-coat extended over the neighboring peaks. We can recall our turns from the first few weeks of the season…
The recent rolling over of the calendar is of significantly less concern than the previous weeks’ introduction of therealnew year, the new season, the annual return of Mother Nature’s frigid gob; a prequel to the end of a year, a sure sign of wintry things to come.
On the way home, snow crunches or blows away from footfalls and tire traffic, a good time to reflect on the twists and turns of the day.
Snow. With enough patience, you could pluck the dendrites off a snow-flake like you might a flower of its petals, gain some insight into Mother Nature’s frosty gift.
“She loves me, she loves me not…”
To be honest, “Spit” is not an apt descriptor for powder snow, “spit” entirely too liquid, liquefied, but unaccustomed to picking fights with little kids, I’ll let it slide this time…
Funny the things you can overlook when snow is falling.
What we get here is significantly lighter, drier, and pillowy-er than the coast, none of the Pacific sludge that passes for snow oozing its way to the Kootenays.
That snowflake might as well be a four-leaf clover, cuz man, are we ever lucky.
Hatch-marks for days already skied are multiplying now, storm systems honing in on the beacon that is Red. Inside the snow-globe, we’re eager to lay fresh tracks, scuff up our skis and New Year’s resolutions in favor of terrain-laden Red-solutions (ha ha!), new challenges, new lines and a fresh perspective on slaying some pow.
Happy New Year, friends… But more importantly, enjoy the season- Tread lightly, shred loosely, and come up with something better than “spit.”
Snow + Red = Mother Nature’s Bread and Butter.
Eat up.-Tyler Bradley