The first time I ever saw fresh snow was when we lived on Sky Valley Road at the end of Mandeville Canyon in Los Angeles: it snowed in the night, and I woke up to a wonderland of white. It was all of two inches deep, if that, and my brother had already gone out and wrecked it with his footprints. But a seven-year-old gets over feeling irritated pretty quickly, and I just added my own footprints to his, slipping and sliding together with the dog before having to bundle up for the bus and school. By the time I got home, the snow was but a damp memory.
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| UW Science Hall |
The first time I ever lived where snowy winters were the norm was in southern Germany when I was fifteen. I don't remember a lot of snow; but I'm sure it snowed.
The only other times I've lived with snow for any duration were my two years in graduate school in Madison, Wisconsin, and one year in Evanston, Illinois, while David was a postdoc.
Otherwise, most of my experience with snow has been while camping. Snow camping. First time was when I skied around Crater Lake in the early 2000s: I was nervous that I'd be miserable—I really don't like getting cold—but it was surprisingly cozy and comfortable. And last year, as part of a weeklong Winter Search Management class, I built my first snow cave. We were afraid we'd be building mud caves, because it hadn't snowed. But at the last minute we got one foot of the white stuff. And yes, I am here to tell you: it is possible to build a snow cave with only one foot of snow.
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| Ruth Gorge, Alaska |
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Living on or in the vicinity of Denali for six weeks all told (two trips) was my most extreme—and exhilarating—snowy experience. Most fun were a couple of ski trips in Norway where each day we got to come home to a nice warm cabin and scrumptious food.
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| Folldal, Norway |
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