I like to run up the hill by my house, a mile and a half of constant, steep incline. It’s hard work pushing up the hill and sometimes I need to walk a small stretch, but something draws me up that hill, motivating me to plod on until I reach the top.

In the summer, a particular stretch at the top smells like blueberries and cream. I don’t know what it is, but it’s the most delicious aroma and the perfect reward for trudging up the hill. The sweet scent is accompanied by cow fields on both sides of the road and breathtaking views of the town framed by the neighboring hills and mountains. No matter the weather, this scent is always lingering and the views never fail to impress me.

I got my first whiff of the blueberries and cream this past Monday, and it was absolutely glorious.

And that was Monday. A beautiful day in the mid-sixties with warm sunshine and refreshing breezes. A day filled with long slow runs, fetch with Thor, and lounging in the sun. If I had guests, there would have been a game of croquet and pitcher of Pimms.

Clearly too good to be true.

It was snowing on Tuesday. It accumulated to five inches and resulted in a temporary power loss. Seriously? How is it that I go to bed after a day of warmth and sunshine and wake up to a snowstorm the next day? The only saving grace was that it was light, fluffy snow, the type that coats the landscape in such a way that even the ugliest of oil tanks or port-a-potties looks snug and cozy under the white blanket.

Despite my annoyance, I did suit up and play in the snow with Thor.

(He's looking for his brain.)