My Utah ski vacation guide turned up a few weeks ago. Right on time. On its tail came the avalanche of gear catalogs. This is my late summer, early fall fix, the seasonal opposite of the lifesaving arrival of gardening catalogs in the dead of winter. I'm done with summer. Done. There's just way too much sweating for so little exhilaration. I say bring on the snow. Epic snow. Shut down the schools, ground flights, stock up on a year's supply of toilet paper and milk, gridlock a city snow.

My friends at White Grass have been pumping up theories of an epic winter. I'd be okay with it starting tomorrow. I'm done. Cooked. I find myself lost in thoughts of crisp air stinging my eyes and sinuses, breathing deep, and letting go.

In summer (spring and fall, too, really), I plod, peddle, and paddle. By the end of the sweating season, I'm weary of the predictability and repetition. And did I mention the sweating? And the mud? And bugs?

I probably play harder in summer than I do in winter. At least it feels that way. I know I come home with more marks. I long for a clean run, pristine snow, and the freedom from gravity and laundry. All summer long I've been hiking up or biking up trails and spending hours cleaning up gear. It's time for some gravity magic and some of the stuff that doesn't stick.

In July, we hopped on horseback and rode many of the trails on which we ski both downhill and cross country. We spotted wild turkeys, a black bear, and plenty of blackberries. The wildflowers were lush in the open sections and in other places, the trails seemed impossibly narrow and wet. And steep. The horses thought so, too. As we switchbacked up and back down the mountain, I found myself looking for new lines. As much as I've always felt there's no better way to spend a day than on horseback, the skier's itch seized me.

The stack of ski gear that needs repair is now calling my name. My ski mechanic (also known as my husband)has a full complement of skis to tune and wax. And then we'll watch for the Weather Channel, itching and scratching, for signs from above that it's time.

The only way I find the kind of dolphins I'm talking about is to go uphill. Perhaps some background on these special creatures will help. Like most good stories, it's a little convoluted at first, but eventually the story comes together.

My husband is one of those natural born athletes gifted with exquisite coordination, endurance, and a passion for outdoor sports which has earned him a physique worth writing about. I inhabit another spectrum, that of a human draft horse. I am inordinately strong but have a slow, plodding form of endurance that while noble, isn't terribly colorful or pretty. Mike is a beautiful athlete, his telemark technique merits "wooHOO's" from the chair lift. I get down the slope safely. The only "wooHOO" I ever got was for a spectacular fall.

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