I went to bed to a cold rain on a hopeful nation, and woke up to five inches of snow and a new American leader.
Now, hours later, having run four miles through shin-deep powder behind a happy Arnie, I am watching the snow continue to fall. Eight inches now, in the back yard, and I'm quietly amazed. Relieved.
The first snow of the season never fails to drop my shoulders a little, to make me see things more simply, and today was no exception.
Tomorrow morning I'll wake up early and skin up Alta with a couple friends. It'll burn my lungs and my legs will be jelly by the time I'm back in the valley, but it will be worth it.
It's not officially ski season yet - we have several more climbing trips planned before we really embrace winter sports - but this will be a good taste of what's to come.
We're heading south - Vegas and Saint George and Zion - for Turkey Day, and I'm looking into Mexican getaways for Christmas. I don't have real hopes for getting Brad to the beach for Christmas, but it's fun to imagine.
And somehow, while imagining, I'm unspeakably fit and riding an 8-foot board. In reality, I'm not, and the only surf board I ever stood up on was so big I couldn't even carry it by myself.