By Ron Watters

This last Thanksgiving, while on a ski trip with friends, I was reminded of a conversation with Harvey, a Buddhist friend of mine. Harvey is the real deal. He shaved his head long ago, before it was fashionable, and is a gentle, contemplative person. Harvey has dabbled in cross country skiing and wears a warm hat, of course, when he does.

We were discussing why cross country skiers are so passionate about their sport. (Have you noticed? Cross country skiers don't just like skiing. They love skiing!) I was offering up to Harvey such reasons as exercise, fresh air and the beauty of the winter, and I asked him his thoughts on the matter.

I must preface his answer by saying that Harvey has a way of coming at things from a different perspective and, at times, his answers can be baffling, even mildly irritating to tell you the truth. And, sure enough, Harvey didn't disappoint. Replying in his quiet and unassuming way, he said, "I think that it might have something to do with the ultimate reality of snow."

The ultimate reality of snow! See what I mean. That's pure Harvey.

I quickly forgot about it, but much later his words came back me, as Harvey's words are wont to do. Not knowing exactly what ultimate reality meant, I looked it up. It's a philosopher's term, I learned: the divine nature of the world or an eternal truth, which governs the universe.

Divine nature of the world? Well, perhaps he was on to something. There is an inkling of a connection. Snow is the one common element in cross country skiing -- and snow is made of water, of course, the essential compound for life. Literary and philosophical icon Henry David Thoreau was certainly inspired by snow. Thoroughly steeped in transcendentalism, Thoreau sought and found divine truths in the natural world. Indeed, he had a beautiful way of describing snow and linking it with something much larger. The individual flakes that fall on a winter day, he called snow stars -- the sweepings of heaven's floor.

I'll never forget one of those sweepings from heaven's floor. It appeared while I was on a ski traverse with eight others across a wilderness area in north central Idaho called the Gospel Hump. "Gospel Hump" comes from blending of the names of two prominent peaks in the area: Gospel Peak and Buffalo Hump. It is appropriate, I suppose, that the place that would come to mind would be one with a biblical connection.

As luck would have it, we started our trip in the Gospel Hump at the beginning of a week-long storm. Finally, at the end of the week and still a couple of days away from reaching our destination, we awoke to the most welcomed and delicious sight: a crystal clear morning.

Lying in my sleeping bag, I peeked out at the inside of the tent. Hanging and vibrating gently above me was a thin thread of nylon, covered in frost crystals. Looking further about, I could see that the entire inside of the tent was glazed by similar crystals.

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