It felt like a deep 4cm. Insignificant compared to the extravagant snowfall totals from far flung locales that I mindlessly monitor each morning, but enough to reset all the lines I tracked out after the last snowfall. Enough to smooth out the transitions between untouched pillows of fresh. I’m paying attention, but there’re plenty of surprises out there. That anticipated cushion of a landing suddenly revealed as solid, and flung into the back-seat I rocket into a thicket of alder, arms up, feet together, holding it together till freedom. Later in the day, tired, mopping up on moderate terrain, making lazy smears in remnant pockets of powder, then whack! I connect with scarcely concealed stump, instantly removing my outside ski, and launching me into a somersault. The landing is clear and soft, and I’m unharmed, but chastened.