At 8,400 feet on what remains of Mount Hood's Palmer Glacier, we are eating watermelon and giggling.

It's a Sunday in September, and we've gotten above the wildfire smoke that's drifting in for many fires.

My son, who's eight, sits on a piece of volcanic rock, watching the ski lift, which has just

started up.

My 13-year-old daughter perches on her own rock.

Our packs are sprawled around us.

We're done with ski carrying up through the loose volcanic chas, up the dirty snow, and now it's celebratory snack time.

We watch as a fellow skier hoots their way down off the top.

The snow is spectacular for September.

As we click in and talk through which line will maximize the skiing, the stoke is high.

While we could have bought lift tickets in a different season, we hiked a little over 2,000 feet up to get here.

Skis a-framed the whole way. Except for a few spots that require booting and a 20-minute walk at the bottom,

we'll ski most of that.

For the kids, it will be their longest descent of earned turns.

Yesterday, I packed up the van with meals and snacks and gear and drove south from outside Seattle

to a pull out on a Forest Service road near government camp.

The smoky sunset was incredible.

The mossy forest, a perfect spot to hang out over dinner.

Then there were the sweet turns on silty September corn

that made us all forget the chaucy slog up.

On the way home, the kids pick where to go to eat,

and it's breakfast at Jack in the Box.

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