The Power of Pow
Winter is becoming an endangered species. I remember being little, waking up to the clamor of snowplows outside. Each pass meant more accumulation—calf-deep, then knees, then thighs, maybe even waist-high. Storms that rolled in at dinner dumped all night, then cleared by morning to reveal bluebird skies. Here in Colorado, early-season snowmaking was once scoffed at—an admission of defeat.
Now, it’s different. Last year, November and December were so dry that by Christmas, one of my favorite students was crestfallen—her beloved high alpine and tree runs weren’t open. To cope, she started sliding around singing "Let It Snow," and, as if by magic, a few flakes would wink out of the clouds each time she did. This sparked a story, woven over many chairlift rides: part Norse mythology, part Disney. We decided the snow was missing because Ullr, Elsa’s love, had been kidnapped. Only Elsa could bring back winter by wandering the high peaks, singing until she freed her snow god.
We never named the villain who had taken him.
This season has mirrored the last—late snow, fluctuating temperatures, and a snowpack that clings on, only to be slowly siphoned away by 40-degree days, revealing rocks and shrubs below.
Then came Presidents’ Weekend, one of the busiest ski holidays of the year. Elsa set Ullr free. The skies opened, and Summit County was graced with three consecutive days of eight-plus inches of snow.
It was wet, heavy. The wind shoved around, sculpting slabs and packing the density even more. First thing in the morning, skiers and riders straight-lined down black diamond pitches, grunting through the stick. It wasn’t perfect, but it was here—and that was all that mattered.
Throughout the mountain, whoops of joy echoed off the bowls and in the trees. We spent the weekend sneaking through the white-out, chasing untouched stashes sheltered from the wind. On Monday, my client peeked over a ridge and spied pristine pillows stretching toward the boundary line. We skied it three times, tracing our jubilation in the snow. On our last lap, as we stopped to catch our breath, a lone dude stood above us on a roller etched with our tracks. He was eyeing a small kicker just beside us.
"Hey! How’s the landing?" he called.
"It’s good!" I shouted back. "But don’t send it yet—we’re standing right here. Give us a sec. Okay, we’re dropping!"
We skied down and watched as he launched full speed off the lip, throwing a front flip. He landed low, his skis bouncing, hips dipping into the snow, but he held it together. Grinning, he stood up. We cheered—he’d stomped it.
"That’s my little jump," he said proudly. "Built it up myself." Then, noticing my uniform, he added, "Please don’t tell patrol."
"Don’t worry—I won’t."
From makeshift features to adrenaline hits and homemade myths, every skier has a pow tale—a perfect memory of writing their own line in fresh snow.
Perhaps appreciation deepens with age, or maybe the increasing rarity of deep days only serves to highlight their fragility. Part of the magic lies in the fact that the stories we carve into untouched snow are fleeting, a reminder that Ullr’s bounty is less and less guaranteed. The encroaching shadow on those bluebird days, the unnamed villain in our tale holding winter hostage, is not some sinister, external force—it is us.
Therein lies another layer in the metaphorical snowpack. Beyond the personal thrill, the love of its weightless freedom, powder’s vulnerability is its most sobering truth. Ullr’s absence reminds us that if we want him to return winter after winter, we must raise our voices—not just in song, but in action—to protect what we love.