This was our weekend to become an outdoor family, surrounded by nature in southeast Minnesota, and here we were inside. My husband and youngest son were stretched on the floor playing Battleship.
"Who wants to go for a walk?" I ask. Silence. "Hel-lo," I emphasize. "We're supposed to be outside."
"Let me finish this chapter," mumbles my oldest, in his sleeping bag on the top bunk in our bare-bones dorm room. That's his code for "in five minutes."
The sun sinks further on the horizon as Jordan and I set out, sliding down an icy hill and up a boot-pocked trail to a snow-covered bluff. Two deer cross our path. And we talk. About fourth grade and the upcoming play he was going to be in.
And we're quiet, the crunch of our boots on the crusty snow the only sound that seems appropriate. The tall prairie grass dotting the landscape turns golden in the setting sun. The sky, which had been a striking blue all day, fades to a frosty pink.
Since we moved back to Minnesota five years ago after nearly two decades in cities such as Seattle, Atlanta and Washington, D.C., winter has been something I've survived more than anything else. I go out when I have to, and stay inside a lot. Neighbors seem to disappear for months. Winter vacations are to warmth.
Last year I decided to move beyond survival mode. I was going to embrace winter.
I bought my husband, Eric, cross-country skis to replace his 20-plus-year-old ones, and on the day after Christmas, while visiting his mom in Albert Lea, we skied at a nearby state park. Time alone, outside, no arguing kids. I could get used to this, I thought. Days later we headed north to go downhill skiing, but after one good day on the slopes, it rained for a day before freezing into a hill of ice.