I both love snow, and hate it.
Right now, I am sitting with a view over a frozen wasteland ☟—never mind that in a couple of days it will be July. I love the view: it's austerely beautiful, all whites and grays and dark browns, and austere beauty has always been one of my favorite landscapes.
Given that our goal here is to do some hiking, I must confess that I wouldn't mind a tad less snow in my viewshed.
Supposedly it's less snowy east of here. And east of here is where we're starting our overnight hike to a mountain hut tomorrow. So it might all turn out just fine.
And if it's too snowy—we can always turn around. We have options. Not to mention free will.
What do I hate? Getting cold, getting wet. And that can happen pretty easily, if one doesn't do things right. I also hate waking up in the morning in my yummy-warm down bag and having to get out of the bag and into freezing clothes. Brrrrr.
But when I think about going to the snow, perversely, I tend to focus on my fear of getting cold and wet—rather than anticipating the pleasure. And indeed, the pleasures far, far outweigh the discomforts. I need to remember that. (This is actually a lesson I could ponder in various realms of my existence.)
So for tomorrow: I'm going to look forward to getting out into the otherworldly landscape, enjoying the exercise, leaving civilization behind (for a while: I'm also looking forward to getting to the hut and having a hot meal!), and frolicking with a few of my favorite people. If we're extraordinarily lucky, we may even see some wild reindeer. That would make me giddy with joy.