|ˈsnōˌflāk|

I saw the most beautiful sight this past weekend.  My children and I hiked up the snow-packed road above Snake Creek Canyon in Midway, Utah.  It is a popular trail for crosscountry skiers (more popular on the downhill than the up, I am sure) and for snowmobilers accessing the backside of the Wasatch Mountain range.  This particular day was sunny and warm, with drippy icicles and periodic snow showers from the loaded pine trees that lined our path.  While the kids pulled their red sled up and up, the dog hopped in and out and barked at the random nothings that only dogs can hear.  We stopped at a turnout in the road - a favorite resting place for us because of the expansive view over Heber Valley and the heart-gulping drop to the canyon floor below.  Because of the blinding sun on this particular day, the undisturbed snow literally sparkled like thousands upon thousands of fallen stars.  I dropped to my knees for a closer inspection and found the top layer of snow to be crusted over, and the snow crystals bonded together into thin wafers of brilliance. I gently scooped up a fine layer of the flimsy gossamer with my bare hand and peered closely at it.  In my hand lay fantastic crystalized shapes - I spotted a castle, a perfectly formed 6-sided snowflake, the tip of the Matterhorn peak. With a holler I called my kids over and showed them the wondrous sight.  For the next 20 minutes, we all scooped and examined and shouted our findings - dinosaurs and monster trucks for my son, ballerina shoes and ponies for my daughter.  It was not unlike summer days staring at the sky and discovering that the clouds do, indeed, pass the time in a silent dance of imagination.  When our fingers were too cold and stiff to move we slid our hands back into our gloves, and the children hopped aboard the red sled.  With a mighty push, I sent them back down the road, the dog leaping and snapping at the snow kicked up in the wake behind them.