As a child, I often daydreamed about what it would be like if snow was warm and dry.  Lying in a slick poly-fill snowsuit under the low branches of a Douglas Fir, cradled comatose by the warm, white divots of a snow-angel, I watched as single flakes drifted down, landing on the wet, rubbery skin of my face.  Sorrel boots cinched tightly around the cuffs of my pant legs, as long as I did not move, I could stay there forever, warm and dry under the fir.  Inevitably, some mote of packed powder would slip inside the cuff of my mitten, forcing me to sit up to rid myself of the freezing bracelet, and in the process, knocking the snow and sap from the bottom branches into other creases of my person.