I pull into the parking lot at Smarts Brook, ease the nose of the truck against the snowbank, and yank on the parking brake. The windshield wipers smear away the fat flakes spinning out of the dusky sky. The cold seeps through the windows. The doors stay shut.

"Where to?" mutters Jon, bent to the task of pulling on his own boots. "Yellow Jacket or Atwood Pond? Yellow Jacket is probably tracked. It'll be easier."

"That's too easy. Let's go to Atwood Pond."

"Oh right, why ski breakable when we can break trail and ski powder?"

Eight winters, many ski days, and every single one has started like this one, with the morning, bullshit-talk that refreshes.

"I love that downhill run we can take down Sandwich Notch Road."

"Yeah, that is so much fun."

"And we'll have the woods all to ourselves."

I zip my layers, pull up my hood, and take a last slug of coffee. The lap ahead unspools my mind - the silent kicking/gliding with an occasional comment, below zero temperatures, snow piled up high on evergreen branches, leapfrogging each other breaking trail, the runs downhill - whooping, slashing, and laughing. No need to stop, no need to talk. Our synchronous flow on the trail makes me as happy as the kicking/gliding we do. We'll be doing this together, I hope, until we are 80.

I turn to him to say so. He's dabbing chapstick on his lips.

"Done with your lipstick yet, bro?"

"Want some?"

"Sure."

He pushes open the door. Cold floods into the truck, and we are both sucked outside into the wintry air.

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