Skiing through the freshly fallen snow on the Blue Ridge Parkway this weekend, alone in the world but for the soft sounds of branches creaking and wind rustling — and, of course, the dog trotting along behind me — I rediscovered that purest form of exhilaration. 

Snow makes me suddenly melt into an 8-year-old child, and I’m OK with that. There’s magic in the way it blankets mundane surroundings in a soft, white canvas, inviting wonder amid the familiar. And when the blanketed surroundings in question are awe-inspiring rather than mundane, well, prepare to be astonished. 

I’ll be riding that feeling until the snow falls again. And in the meantime, living vicariously through the pictures I brought back with me. 

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