Mountain Thanksgivings are my official favorite. I've had only two of them, and I'm ready to call it for all time. While mountain trips don't generally fall into my "relaxing" category, these winter visits are laden with fat snowflakes and the sort of Dr. Seuss-esque scenery that stuns me into quiet.
Our family, and the visiting Fikes, filled our Breckenridge rental with the bipolar mix of angst and congeniality that accompanies all Rosette holidays, followed by group conversation and dueling stomach aches. We ate pie and fattened our Wii miis to accurately reflect fluctuating waistlines. All the usual stuff. As the Fikes ambled home that evening, snow started to fall, the innocent beginning of our 18" pileup.
My mom and her Wii mii
A day later, we were snowed into the gorgeous house my family rented for the better part of two days. George and I snowshoed on a trail behind the house, basking in the glory of making fresh tracks. There's a softness to the world under snow, a smiling in secret.
When we finally reached Denver after three hours of slow, snowstorm driving, it was disappointing to rejoin the world of noise, traffic and dirty snow. I'd like to pretend it doesn't exist, lace up my waterproof boots and thread uphill while the snow falls, leaving a trail of clean, perfect snowshoe tracks.