This year, we did not have snow on the peaks by September 15 (some years we do). But this Sunday, while we were driving around in an abortive attempt to find a nice big grove of yellow-leafed aspens, we drove into an area of snain--rain mixed with snow. You couldn't really tell, except that some of the splats hitting the windshield were making star shapes, rather than circular blobs that instantly turned into water trails.
It rained on and off all night, down here.
This morning, when the clouds finally drifted away from the top of the peaks--just for a few moments--there it was: gleaming fresh snow, from the top to a quarter of the way down.
(Lest anyone think that the Omega household has a view, I have to say we are stashed amongst lots of pine trees and don't have a view at all. There are times when I yearn for the view we had from the dining area doors at the house we rented in Lonesome Valley, nine years ago--a wide expanse that swept to the north and east from our house, up to Mongoose Mountain. The play of light and shadow that danced across those broad rolling foothills was soothing balm to the soul. That view is gone now, for that house and its neighbors, because LV has grown and grown and grown, creeping ever outwards. That house now has a view of lots of other little boxy duplexes and small houses; no more antelope playing in the fields.)
During the day a chill wind blew. Clouds darted across the sky. The weather service called for "numerous" thunderstorms, but when you looked at the looming grey clouds, you didn't see rain coming down, but snow. Rain falling tends to be deep dark grey; snow, by virtue of being white and reflecting the scattered sunlight, shows up as veils of whiteness drifting down from the clouds.
Of course none of it stuck this "low". But it's a sign of things to come. Perhaps next Sunday we'll try a different route, avoiding all the traffic (argh!) and finding some fine aspen stands. Hopefully, the rain, snow, and wind will not have stripped the trees of their finery by then.