The first snow came this weekend. It settled on the top of Mount Stuart, a first white dusting above the valley. Montana took the first big storm of the season. Showdown measured up to 19 inches and Bridger Bowl a full foot. Great Falls saw nearly 16 inches, and Sunday was the snowiest October day in its records. Lone Mountain at Big Sky woke up white. Somewhere, a child had done a snow dance for it.
Every one of us knows a snow dance. A spoon slipped under the pillow. Pajamas worn inside out and backward. A white crayon set on the windowsill. Nobody remembers who taught them. Everybody remembers doing it.
Out West, the old timers did not dance. They watched the high country. The larches turn gold on the ridges before they let their needles go. The Steller's jays hide seeds in the moss and bark. The juncos come back to the feeders. The elk drift down from the high meadows. The salmon push up the rivers to the places they were born. When it all happens at once, the snow is close.
Mountain folk have their own words for winter. Heavy wet snow is Cascade concrete in Washington and Sierra cement in California. A warm storm out of Hawaii is the Pineapple Express, and it turns the snow to rain. A clear day is the mountain coming out.
The skiers keep rituals of their own. Each fall they gather to pray for snow. They raise a glass to Ullr, the old Norse god of winter. Some toss a pair of worn out skis on the bonfire for luck.
None of it ever made the snow fall. All of it made the waiting sweeter.
We are Roslyn folk, and we read our own signs. The pine needles let go and drift across the roads. The chainsaws start up on Saturday mornings as the woodpiles grow. The crows gather each evening, more of them every week, flying the same line over the rooftops to roost together. The black bears wander into town for the last of the wild fruit before they sleep. Then one morning the grass is white with the first frost, and we know.
Our own snow dance is a simple one.
A Ceramic Camp Mug of Cold Smoke while the morning frost lifts from the yard, and Larch Season lit in the window behind you.
A pot of Big Sky set on the coals, and the Live Edge Serving Board passed around with cheese and apples.
A thermos of Illumination Rock carried up to the larches, and one cup at the top while the clouds roll in.
So slip a spoon under your pillow tonight. Wear your pajamas backward if you must. Then pour a cup and watch the crows.
The season turns.