P. woke me up just before sunrise begging me to come outside and look at the mountains. Snow. In April. In the desert. I loaded up the dogs, kissed P. goodbye (some people have to be at work before 7am), and drove up into the mountains in the old Jeep with Biscuit riding shotgun. Sure enough, at five thousand feet there was a dusting of snow. And tiny, frozen wildflowers. And freezer-burned cholla.