I walked down the snowpacked path and tramped across an arched footbridge. Four feet below, Killdeer Creek gurgled beneath its mantle of ice. Christmas and the promise of more snow would soon bring an onslaught of skiers. I trudged onward resolutely, not wanting to think about the holiday, and all the parties I would miss catering.

Sell the old skis. Get the new drains, I told myself. Develop the personal chef sideline, then reopen your business. And quit worrying!

I clambered up the ice-packed pathway to the clanking gondola. The car manager, his hair swathed in an orange jester cap, his face spiderwebbed from a decade of sun, stopped a car for me. I heaved my backpack and poles into the six-seater while the car manager whistled an off-tune Christmas carol and clanked my skis into the car's outside rack. The car whisked away.

Up, up, up I zoomed toward the bistro. Even though snow continued to fall, the sky had brightened to the color of polished aluminum. The muffled grinding of the cable was the only sound as the car rolled past snow-frosted treetops and empty, pristinely white runs. This early, an hour and a half before the runs officially opened, I was alone on the lift. Our small studio audience usually rode up at quarter to eight. Early-bird skiers who couldn't brave the cold would still be guzzling cocoa at Cinda's or the Karaoke Café. Or they could be poring over maps of Killdeer's back bowls, those steep, ungroomed deep-snow areas braved by only the hardiest of skiers. Or maybe they would be having their bindings checked at the repair shop, or just staring out at the snow-covered mountains. In other words, they could be anticipating real fun.

I shifted on the cold vinyl seat and peered downward. Below the new blanket of flakes, groomed, nubbled snow had frozen into ridged rows. The grooming was left to the snowcats, those tractor tanks that churned and smoothed the white stuff after-hours. By the time I skied down at nine, I knew, the new powder would be lumped into symmetrical rows of moguls: hard, tentlike humps of snow arrayed across the hill like an obstacle course. As much as I loved skiing, and I did, this might or might not be fun.

Halfway to the top, the car stopped. This happened occasionally, when children failed to make the hop onto the seats and their parents went nova. But it shouldn't be happening now. I glanced back at the base; the gondola station was out of sight. A sudden wind made the cable car swing. I shivered and looked down at the runs. How far down were they, anyway?

Think about something else, Goldy. What you're doing later. Selling Tom's skis. I tightened my grip on the cold bars and took my mind off the distance to the ground.

Tom's skis, I reminded myself. Yes. The buyer was Doug Portman. Not exactly a happy thing to think about, but never mind.