I was cold. Icy pinpricks of snow fell on my cheeks and lips. I shivered inside my jacket and headed toward Jitterbug, which I knew to be a curvy blue run without too many surprises. At the base, Doug would be ticked off with me. But there was no way I was skiing down Coffin-Builder. The few straight stretches of Jitterbug were bordered by trees on the left and a yellow cord to the right. After a few moments, I stopped on the right side of the slope to rest. Snow obscured the far mountains, but the vista downward was breathtaking. The yellow cord marked a no-man's-land of rocks and pines that led down to two steep mogul fields, Hot-Rodder closest to me, Coffin-Builder beyond. On Coffin-Builder, a handful of expert skiers zigged and zagged through the bumps. I certainly hoped that it was Arch I'd seen at the top of Jitterbug. If I thought he was boarding down a black run, I'd probably have a heart attack. I skied fast down the next section of Jitterbug. When I careened around a bend, I spied a crowd of people clustered ahead of me. Digging in my skis, I sent up a cloud of snow as I came to an abrupt halt.

Why was everybody stopped?

Something scraped my cheek and I pulled back. It was a large shred of ash. Or a torn chunk of map. Without thinking, I tried to catch it. It was indeed a wadded piece of paper. That's when I realized that, along with the snow, this large confetti was coming down everywhere. It was as if someone had torn up a newspaper and carelessly dumped the crumpled bits of litter from the lift.

Litter?

"Mom, hey, Mom!" Arch's voice sailed past me. "Over here!"

I turned, but did not see my son. All around, gaggles of skiers had halted and were scooping up the tumbling papers. I did not see any snowboarders. "Arch!" I cried into the mêlée. "Where are you?"

"Here, Mom!" Suddenly my son scraped his snowboard next to my skis. Swathed in his dark red outfit and a stay-warm ski mask that made him look like an escapee from a horror movie, Arch clutched a handful of the paper. His prescription goggles had been pulled up at an angle on the top of his head, and I could just make out his merry brown eyes above the mouth mask. "Money!" he announced. "Hundred-dollar bills! It's falling with the snow! Here," he squawked as he thrust a fistful of bills at me. "Put these in your pocket, would ya?" Before I could protest, he scooted off on the board to retrieve more of the falling cash.

There was squawking and yelling among the skiers now, as a sudden updraft swirled the precious bills heavenward, where they mixed with a new tornado of flakes. A member of the ski patrol showed up and started hollering ineffectually for order.

Still uncomprehending, I stood grasping the wad of bills Arch had handed me, then stuffed them into my pocket. I dug in my poles and scooted to the slope's right side. An abrupt shift in the wind spun up a fresh storm of bills. The money smacked my goggles and I was momentarily blinded. I wiped the bills away and strained to see their source. They seemed to be blowing up from somewhere below where I stood.