Sometimes we go to Timberline. My parents rent a big room in the lodge with enough bunk beds to sleep ten people.

Some of us ski, and when we get cold, we head into the lodge to eat french fries. Some of us don’t ski, but we get cold anyway.

When we get back to the room, we hang our jackets from the hooks on the wall and we line up our boots in a row by the door.

We cook food in the room (which is probably not legal); and we store our beverages outside the window, in the snow (which is probably legal).

After two pulled pork sandos, we run outside in our swimsuits and jump in the hot tub, where the blizzard stings our skin, and the snow falls into our hair.

In the evening we sit by the fire and watch the windows steam up; then we play shuffle board in the game room and wander the long dark carpeted corridors.

And sometimes in the middle of the night, when all ten of us are asleep in the big dark room, I wake up and hear the crackle of icicles forming outside the window,

the heavy creaking of the lodge as it settles into place, and the swish of a million snowflakes falling from the stars.