WE FLEW THE NEXT morning, poking up through clouds and mist to sneak in a few runs. The variable light and temperatures were still wacky, but the runs were splendid, including the finest of the trip, a 4,500-foot glacial drop called French Connection: a pitch of fresh winter snow on top giving way to a mile of perfect corn. We wound up in a meadow and, removing our skis, milled around with a kind of postcoital contentment. My father gave Xander and me a squeeze, a gesture indicating the emotional equivalent of planetary alignment. He had tasted the good stuff, and he was with his boys. Also, he had been jittery on top, spooked by a fairly exposed landing spot. "I didn't like it there," he said.

"I know you didn't," Xander said. "I didn't either."

"You know who really wouldn't have liked it?"

"Mom."

She'd have liked the snow, though. Corn is like heroin. The more you get, the more you need. But on our next run the snow turned—wet slides creeping down the steeps—and the morning abruptly ended. We would not ski again.

Still, our spirits held. We knew enough to realize that this is how it goes sometimes and that to have had any time together in these mountains at all, without mishap, was a gift. And, it being June, winter, the next one, was not terribly far off.

Nick Sr. and guide Jim Knudsen fishing the Atnarko River (Paolo Marchesi)