THE TELEPHONE RANG MUCH EARLIER than I had expected. “Moeller, get up,” the excited voice blurted. “It snowed 13 inches at Monarch. Let’s get rolling.” I clambered out of bed, looked out the window and grinned. The Pueblo sky was dumping fat, sloppy flakes the size of pancakes. Moments later Adam sped up to my house and we tossed our ski gear into my Subaru. It was early December, and Monarch Mountain reported a 22-inch base, including the 13 inches of overnight fluff. We belted in, cranked the defroster and headed out to make our first runs of the season. ...
