Ammi Midstokke

Someone always has to be ill on holidays, and apparently it was my turn to pull a shift. Or it was karma for complaining about my husband's sweet potato casserole.

By Ammi Midstokke The Spokesman-Review Maybe the world and its struggles have become too big for me.

By Ammi Midstokke The Spokesman-Review I used to be a runner. But that was like three weeks ago.

It was a dark street on a dark night and a dark car had parked in the convenient shadows between distant streetlights.

Every year when we run out of days, I think this is the year I will resist the temptation to over-commit myself to various

I should have known I’d find them in the trees on their skis, an hour away from the rest of humanity. It was like I had suddenly landed in a flock of wise women or witches clad in Gore-Tex and Swix, swish-swishing their way through the forest. All was quiet beyond the soft rush of Priest River, Idaho, and, of course, the hen clucking of seven women with no particular agenda but nine separate, simultaneous conversations.

It's never too late no matter how old you are and there's no better time than now to learn to ski or snowboard. Two of our writers went out on their own paths this season in pursuit of doing just that, and, in the process, gained insight and experience into the cult of snow-sliding fanatics.

In case you missed it, I got to sit on stage for an hour last week with Patrick Hutchison, who is my carpentry spirit animal.

My favorite trail segment on my favorite trail in my favorite place in the world has been closed. I am heartbroken, despondent even, at what feels like the loss of a thousand tree friends.

I've never asked a psychic how or when I am going to die, but we can assume nature will be involved.