Hello and welcome to An Altitude Problem, where we are all experiencing the five stages of ...whatever it is that has 75% of summit county on edge these days.

Denial. "I can. Not. Believe. This. They were calling for twelve to fourteen inches, so we will get it. It just isnt here yet. It is a slow moving storm. It will get to Nebraska, realize there is nothing there, and turn around. It simply cannot have passed us by again".

Anger. "Bad, bad, BAD weather man. BAD. You made me bring in my ski boots and put them by the bed, so I could land in them when I bounced out of bed in the morning. BAD front range, that trapped the storm. I will go outside right now, draw in a breath of -16 degree air, and scream at the sky until it drops a snowflake on me.

Bargaining. "If I pretend not to notice the low pressure system moving across Arizona, maybe it will sneak into Summit County unexpectedly. If I leave the snow tires off the car...if I hope it never snows...If I mountain bike on the trails and pretend to like their dry state...THEN will it snow?"

Depression. "It will never snow. Summit County has upset God. That is all. Go home."

And finally, acceptance. Just kidding. Nobody, except those few who are here for reasons other than living life surrounded by deep snow and high peaks, sweeping turns in the powder, spring runoff, and White Christmases are about to accept the fact that there is still, two weeks before Christmas, still, on the shortest, coldest days of the year, still, even as the season officially arrives along with out of state SUV's, STILL, no snow.

It is a strange feeling walking about town, mingling with locals these dark days. They snarl. They twitch. They seem to shrink when they make eye contact. This cannot be. Wolf Creek, four and a half feet of snow. Rabbit Ears Pass, two feet. Even Vail, 7 inches. But here, naught. They said two inches. I am sceptical. If there was, it was flung by the wind into low areas. I still see dirt in my front yard. Our eyes sink into our sockets, our brows furrow, we powder-starved citizens of Ski Country. There is no helping us. Nothing but a big dump of white marshmallow fluff will make us feel better.

Although there is no snow, there is still no doubt that it is winter. It has been as low as fifteen degrees below zero. Poorly installed water lines have burst, causing ceilings to buckle and drywall to fall onto floors, insulation following it, icicles cascading down exterior walls and water soaking carpets and carpet pads that, less than a year old, have had to be lifted and dried out, then all must be repaired in the ten days we have before the next booking. And do you think a single contractor would answer his phone and be available to do a speed job for a homeowner who lives in sunny Florida and thinks a broken pipe, one that has had to be repaired before because it was installed in an exterior wall, should be a warrenty issue, covered by the last repairman?

I spent a good part of my day running from building to building, condo to condo turning the heat up to 70 degrees to prevent other frozen pipes. I passed several condo doors propped open, plumbers working feverishly to contain and repair water geysers soaking floors on fourth and fifth floor condos. And today was a heat wave. 9 degrees. Although the wind whipped and howled around buildings and through plazas, pushing icy needles of pain through my fingertips as I fumbled for the right key to get me into building lobbies or into my car. And although the heat in all our condos is usually set at 65 degrees, I spent the day chilled to the bone. After seven arrival inspections, at the thought of an eighth, the thought of programming one more remote with numb, wooden fingers, filling out any more paperwork with handwriting so cramped and spiky I didnt recognize it as mine, I almost succumbed to the urge to cry. So I went back to the office instead, to a cardboard tub of steaming soup from City Market, and cookies, also from City Market, oddly glad that the friend I had agreed to meet to snowboard with for a couple of hours late in the day never called. The frost settling in my bones was stronger than my fondness for sharing turns, however icy, with another living, breathing human being. Even one as laugh-inducing as this particular friend.

I came home and built a fire, my impatience with being cold making me use an insane amount of newspaper kindling, sat and wrote the first half of this post, then B came home and we went to the gym, where my cookies and my glasses of water they were washed down with were at the perfect stage in their digestive process to provide me with a burst of energy just long enough to get me around the indoor track thirty three times, three miles, in twenty eight minutes, which is about as good of time as I will ever make indoors when I have to make a left hand turn forty four times in a single mile. It's as pointless as a Nascar race.

And now, we are home, I am warm for the first time today, and will not be moving very far from the woodstove until bedtime. The only food that could be prepared for dinner that did not involve preparation was the emergency Red Baron pizza that has been in the freezer for months. I will even be eating it. I will try not to think about the amount of time the cheese and sausage will sit in my innards, how it will completely undo my workout, how it is just white bread devoid of nutrition, covered in cancer, diabetes, and heart disease, non-sustainability, environmental and economic destruction, and cruelty.

Did that just sound snooty? I suppose so. Please do not take it personally, faithful few. I don't want to be THAT person, even though I suppose it is inevitable, once one does such far-out things as leave one's midwest, flatlands roots and embrace the mentality of someone living in a personal-and-global-betterment mountain town environment.

Speaking of which, have I mentioned that we sold our house in Kansas? We are officially citizens of only one place, and that place is not Kansas.

And now, it is time to go and chase the pizza with a cookie, crawl onto the couch with B, and begin regretting my choice of dinner, which has been eaten during the last two paragraphs, with many breaks for chewing and swatting the dog away. I do not plan to move again until bedtime.