Miracle March Storm Skiing at Squaw Valley
The Miracle March storm delivered. The deck at the cabin was buried past the railings, so the day started with a shovel — punching through drifts just to get a path open, snow still coming down the whole time. The car had a wall of plowed snow behind it taller than I am.
Then up to Squaw Valley to ski it. Snow fell all day on the mountain, heavy enough that my beard collected ice in clumps riding the chairlift — full chunks of it frozen into the whiskers by the second lap. Squaw averages something like 400 inches a year and this March alone felt like it was trying to hit that number by itself.
By the time I got back down to the parking lot the cars were half-buried again. The Steller's jays were working the feeders at the cabin, knocking snow off the pine branches to get at the seed. It kept snowing after dark. The snowbanks along the street have swallowed the mailboxes — just the tops of the posts sticking out.