...we did. But there was none of the deep, spangled snow I was hoping for. Or very little. Just a dusting on the highest peaks, on the crenellated cockscomb of the Gore Range. I was a little disappointed, I must admit. I had so hoped for snow. But there were fanciful towers poised against a gauzy scrim of sky... Beautiful old buildings in high, rickety mining towns... ...rusty churches, their spires spiking into the thin mountain air. Oh, yes, and there were frozen lakes, still and silent amid gilded meadows...and streams running through solid banks of ice. There were still rocks tumbling beneath the cold, cold water, just like I remembered, the mountains grinding molars in the depths of their winter dreams. There were villages of wood sprites enchanted into a frozen tarantella of frosted twigs. And there was ice of all varieties...smooth ice, clear ice, turquoise and platinum ice, ice with crests and crystals and borders of frozen lace. And there were stars to be found everywhere, even in the least probable of places. There were magical bears to ride, their woolly, muscled haunches bound with Christmas wreaths, their fur tinged gold under the faerie lights. And little girls to ride those bears...little girls in red coats, their noses pink and their eyes shining dark as coal. There were windows full of candy... ...and wooden benches strewn with fur rugs to warm cobble-worn legs. Streets aglow with a father's love, tiny fingers touching chilled cheeks... ...and dancing fountains... ...and a million tiny moths of light hovering in place, suspended on the crystal breath of winter.