Three skiers crossing the bridge with their dogs hear the distinctive call.
Plenty of people talk about how spring has a special smell, but it has a soundtrack too.
Red-winged blackbird warbles over the sound of snowmelt signal an imminent end to ski season.
The skiers dont really mind.
Theyre ready to ride bikes, chase packrafts down river.
Up at the ski hill everyone is already in full spring skiing mode.
Most of the chairlifts are filled by spring breakers.
Locals head up for slushy afternoon laps, and theres been rumblings of a wiggle carved into the slope.
Some skiers are already planning their mud season escape to the desert.
Others are excited by the newfound stability and are starting to check big lines off their lists of goals.
Everyone is slathering sunscreen on newfound goggle tans and burns as they head to the hill.
And then some invisible switch flips.
The light evening drizzle starts to freeze.
The driver saves it somehow, swearing and sweating as the massive rig buckles and then rights itself.
Sometime during the night the snowfall gains intensity.
Up at the ski hill, the groomers have gotten used to easy laps, smoothing out firm snow.
In town, the new snow accumulates, barey freezing, in a glop of almost slush.
The same three skiers from yesterday are headed back out for another lap.
No dogs this time.
Each turn is deep, sweeping, light snow hanging in the morning light.
By noon the temperature is rising.
Theyre steaming as they skin back to the car.
A few others will ski later in the afternoon and find slopes approximately the consistency of fresh-poured concrete.
At the ski hill theres no rush, no parking frenzy, no lift line outrage.
Its a Thursday, and those who know, know.
By sunset temperatures are nearly ten degrees above freezing again.
The red-winged blackbird survived the night, and hes in higher spirits now.
He lets out a triumphant trill as the last light fades over his patch of creek.
Shes a ficklemistress, but often generous with spring snowfall.
