A sheet of velvet covers the mountain base. Lift towers light up the purity of fresh snow and cast shadows into the trenches of the groomers. From the window of my apartment, I look over it like a farmer to his crop. Its my favorite time of year. Snow-makers send an endless stream of dust that billows up into the sky. Snowmachines and snowcats seem to go everywhere and to nowhere in preparation for opening day, their drivers filled with ecstasy at being paid to play in the snow. I live for the beginning of a winter season.