Night has fallen here in Tahoe, a hidden moon, an abundance of snow-light.
Sitting on a couch over-run with pillows, blankets, and exhausted teens, cozy in their post-dinner respite. One is reading, some look comatose, most are flocked around the pool table, shouting alliances and antagonisms. It's the third and final night of our annual snow trip. Everything's a mess, and no one cares.
Yesterday I skied a black diamond for the first time. The snow fell thick, my thighs burned, and my heart pumped me full of warmth as I struggled down the steepest slope I'd ever conquered. Afterwards, I went back to soaring down the blue runs, faster and faster, wetter and wetter.
Two hours ago I romped through the deep, thick powder on snow-shoes I hadn't worn since I lived in Vermont, nearly eight years ago.
Picture it: a forest of pines heavy with fresh snow, the last of the sun pinking a few wispy clouds, five of us huffing and stomping ungracefully up a hill to the most magnificent view of the stony lake. We stopped. We sent snow balls and discs rolling down the slant and watched the waves grow rough and dark. For those few moments, all we could hear was the crunch of the snow and the holler of our laughter.