It was May 1. The fair mountains of the upper Roaring Fork Valley had
just been blanketed with yet another fresh layer of the white stuff,
and the temperature in town was hovering slightly above freezing. For
my part, I had just wrapped up a round of altogether-too-soon
off-season vacations and was hoping, as in previous years, that the
snow line on Aspen Mountain had, at the very least, receded to the top
of Little Nell run. Alas, someone must have applied the Rogaine.
So, still lamenting the fact that winter had obviously disregarded that
moment of astronomical significance known as the vernal equinox, I
contented myself by sitting around half asking, half demanding to know
why Ullr wanted to keep rubbing the epic winter in our collective faces.
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