The six weeks since the ski hill closed have been weeks of ease. Very little rain. Warm. Not long after the lifts wend dead, I started looking for shorts and forgot I even owned socks. The river’s high, but not scary high. It’s running just right to keep it all in the banks.
Folks have made the Moab pilgrimage and returned.
Some folks are still touting since there is snow up high.
Shops are on a reduced schedule with a day closure here and there for staff parties and personal mental health days.
It’s all good.
And then winter showed its hand again. Snow toppled my tulips and dripped the pink blossoms on my mountain ash. Suddenly the branches no longer rioted pink out side my window, but struggled to keep remain intact under a heavy dressing of snow.
And then it was gone.
A snow more like a gust of wind, leaving us with the last days of spring and one final opportunity to go mud bogging before putting the sleds away.
