The Romantic.com

My husband and I headed out the cabin door at 11:00pm, grabbed the rope handle of an old-fashioned runner sled and hiked to the dirt road.

The moon cast night shadows on the pristine snow. The only sounds were the crunch crunch of our boots, the swish swish of the sled, and the huff puff of our breaths. At the highest point on the mountain road, we positioned the sled. Nestled on the plank seat, the two of us shoved off.

Crisp air frosted our cheeks. Glittering snow powder dusted our shoulders. And — like fireworks on the fourth of July — flashing sparks flew each time the sled runners scraped a small stone.

When the long ride slowed, we tumbled into a fluffy drift. Giggling like children, we rolled to our backs and flapped our “wings.”

Grabbing the rope and heading back up the hill, I tucked my mittened hand in his. I glanced over my shoulder and smiled at the artwork we had left behind — two adult-size snow angels.

A perfect New Year’s Eve.