“I'm going to die!” I swear I’m going to freeze to death,” proclaims Quill, our melodramatic seven-year-old. My husband James sighs next to me. “You won’t die, stop saying that.” Keep moving, you'll stay warm. » “Dad, what is it?” Quill pushes something with the cane. “I’m still going to die.” Dani continues to try to see Quill's find, which annoys her older brother. James reached the pile of snow. "Stop pushing him and let me see." "Is that bear poop?" Dani, back off, it's a man's thing. Quill puts an arm of caution in his way. It's hell being five and a girl sometimes. "I think I see a sunny spot Dani, let's go get warm." I said. It was a hot day in the parking lot. Small piles of melting snow next to the concrete. Under the trees surrounding Bear Lake, it's damn cold. Memorial Day weekend at Rocky Mountain National Park and one side of the lake still has three feet of snow covering the path. Dani and I stay in the sun waiting for the “men” to catch up. The view was worth Quill's moaning and navigating through the snow. The breeze catches the bright green and gold of the new aspen leaves whispering around the lake. Pine trees scent the air and bask in the sun to steal its warmth from the forest below. The trees form a dark canopy along our path, allowing only a few patches of the finely mulched raised path a ray or two of sunlight. Framed like a photo, three pencil-gray peaks rise above a lower curve of pines. They look close enough to cross the ridge and touch them. The rocks cling precariously to the sides of the mountains. The perfect deep blue sky of early summer makes the perfect backdrop. “I'm going to die. » “Is Quill really going to die?” Dani asks. She is only five years old but looks much older,...... middle of paper ...... went to the park service for a small pot of ashes. The melting snow puts an end to my embarrassment and allows me to stand. I brush frantically trying to get all the melty bits off. I look around, grateful that it's not one of those mud puddles that decorated my ass. The brown-tinged snow shows signs of other hearty souls walking by the lake. “Do you want me to take the backpack?” "" James asks, trying not to laugh. Quill points and laughs. “Keep it up, little man.” I'm going to push your butt into the snow. I simulate a lunge that sends him scrambling trying to coordinate his feet and cane. His bright blue eyes narrowed into slits, "You're going to kill me mom." » “How many times have you gone sledding this winter?” I remember freezing my ass off at least twice," I ask. He waves his hand in a motion you don't understand. "Mom, the snow in Kansas is different. The snow in Colorado will kill you.”