I think most of you know that I live for winter. I’m a snowaholic who loves to ski. Now I’ll admit that not everything about winter is lovely. There are the gray days, like today, when I look out my window and feel like I’m living under a gray umbrella. It’s raining in town—an event that in my Wyoming-raised mind should never happen. But with Boise’s low elevation and position south of the 45th parallel, it does happen. Frequently.
But in a an arrid—and growing more so—location like this, we are grateful for any precipitation, in no matter what form it arrives. And often rain in town means snow on the mountain. Early January was skiers’ bliss. We had the rare combination of very cold tempretures paired with snowfall. First it arrived in dribs and drabs, and inch here, a half-inch there, but snow nonetheless. Then a four-day storm hovered above and dumped snow by the foot! Like lemmings, skiers streamed up the hazardous, twisty-turney, icy, 16 miles to Bogus Basin.
Of course, before, during, and after a snowstorm, the mountains are often foggy. That keeps the wimps in town but die-hard skiers head for the trees, where the fog is less bothersome.
The icing on the cake is the morning the snow stops and the sun burns through the clouds illuminating that magical winter playground. Even privies take on a whimsical air.