Last night was windy and chilled. Lit up the fire, turning our home into orange hew of comfort in a galaxy of black. 34° outside, 70° in. Smell of woodsmoke in the air, but more significantly, the smell of snow. Not a lot it turns out, barely a dusting, but it's the first snow we've had at 8,680 feet above sea level this year. And that is cause for celebration. Got out before sunrise to see what was happening up high. Rounded the corner, the chill wind slicing into me, and there it was – a mountain of white. Not brown, not auburn, not just a dusting, but white, glistening, like a shining castle on a hill. It makes the heart leap into the throat, for soon, we will be skiing on the little mining hill above the ghost town. It's a good time to be alive.