Lisa and I were above the creek when a snow storm started. Snow storms don’t ‘roll in’ in the mountains. They don’t form. They just start. Sometimes you can smell them coming. Actually, smell is the wrong word. My mother used to be able to smell the creeks. That’s what she said. She used to be able to hit anything with a rifle. I saw her hit a dime with a twenty-two short at 25 yards. At that distance the slug isn’t even going straight. There is a sense people have that is impossible to explain. I see it all the time with Lisa and my daughters. At the risk of sounding sexist I believe women are closer to nature then men. Perhaps it is our preoccupation with pussy that renders us useless. Regardless, when Lisa tells me a premonition, feeling or hunch, I listen. The snow fell solid for an hour, gathering on the branches. I said, maybe we should head down. Lisa said, it’s going to stop. So we stayed huddled.