Here’s a column from November 1995, a year the snow waited until after Thanksgiving.
I rode the bike up high, up to almost 10,000 feet, and still the ground was pretty bare. I stopped and walked out on a ledge and listened for snow.
There was the sound of wind in the bare aspens down below in Beaver Creek. Or was that the creek itself? A trickle running over autumn-gray stones? Wind and water sometimes sound alike.
There was the distant grinding of cars on Dallas Divide, the sound rising and fading with the breathing of the wind. There was a jet, its muted roar reaching far in front of the shining silver seed.
A murder of crows rode the scarp’s updraft diagonally above me. Their wing feathers rustled like tissue paper. I couldn’t hear the snow coming. (more…)