FALLING INTO WINTER

I’ve long proclaimed that autumn is my favourite season. Cool enough for a sweater, warm enough for a hike. Back to school. New classes, new friends. Those brilliant colours.

When the soaring oaks, sycamores and tulips of my south-of-the-border youth finally dropped their leaves, we piled them into head-high piles then sprinted in, head first, again and again. We belly-laughed while wriggling against their prickly edges, creating heaps of crushed leaf dust my ever-patient father shook his head over but gleefully dove into as well.

By the time November arrived the piles were gone, burned in the ditches and backyard barrels that dotted our quiet neighbourhood. Watching our decaying jungle gyms disappear in a damp, smoky haze always had the air of a funeral pyre: Ahead of us was the bleakness of four cold, grey Midwestern months, when crippling ice storms were the only meteorologic certainty.

Then my father discovered skiing.

With that early-’80s revelation, the course of our lives changed—and postHalloween fires now marked the beginning of winter, the soul-filling season of ski lifts, snow guns and busloads of bonkers friends.

Eventually marrying a skier and now living with the two teenage ski monsters we created, autumn is a conflicted time in our little family. We’re sucking up every bit of sun we can: last-minute pier jumps and paddles, quick trips to the bike trails before the sun sets. But it’s difficult to focus on the now when we know what’s around the corner.

Snow.

Somewhere in mid-October (we’re always caught off-guard), my husband will venture to the crawlspace and dig out bin after bin of winter gear. We’ll wash hats, mitten liners and base layers, hang them on the line. Kids will try on winter gear: Who’s outgrown what? Click into ski boots, stomp around the kitchen in our full kits—helmets, goggles and all. An annual, ridiculous game of dress up.

Soon we’ll be stuffing kids and skis into the truck, making it halfway to the hill before we turn around for a forgotten season pass. We’ll make laps, slurp hot cocoa. A whooping hockey stop and a face full of snow. Cheesing chairlift selfies. After Christmas we’ll pack our bags for places west, sneaking boots into carry-on luggage and delivering dogs to sitters on our way.

The real mountains will awe and humble us. We’ll find favourite trails, one child or both will have a skill epiphany. New friends at the après bar. Best restaurant ever. Never leaving, let’s just move here. Grinning earto-ear, a tear in the eye. An overnight dump, bouncing powder turns. Skiing is heaven.

Ya. Autumn may be the best season, but winter—I guess winter is worth getting excited about, too. – Kristin Schnelten