Feb. 22, 1968
And then it happened. My typewriter had scarcely regained its normal , temperature after clacking out a bevy of cutting remarks about how old man winter was playing dirty tricks on skiers in general and the poor resort owners in particular when the furious old frost-whiskered demon came snorting in on us, revenge bent.
The skies filled with swirling dark clouds, and the icy wind moaned as if in sympathy with any…
