Once upon an Easter—not in December, not in Narnia, but in April—my family decided to escape to the mountains for some springtime magic in Kościelisko. We imagined blooming crocuses, gentle sunshine, and maybe a light jacket if the wind got feisty.
What we got instead... was a blizzard that could have frozen time itself.
Picture this: a tiny road winding up toward a charming wooden house, surrounded by pine trees, sheep-shaped clouds, and—oh yes—a snowbank taller than a five-year-old with a good head start on their growth chart.
Our car, bless its heart, tried its best. It whined, it spun, it growled. And then, like a stubborn reindeer that never passed sleigh school, it stopped.
We stood there, our pastel bags and Easter baskets in hand, staring up at the house we could see—but not reach. It was like a festive survival movie: Easter Edition.
There was only one way forward: we hiked. Through knee-deep (waist-deep for the youngest among us) powdery snow, dragging luggage and chocolate bunnies and one very confused Pomeranian. My dad’s boots disappeared. My mom’s scarf froze mid-flap. I was half-convinced the Easter Bunny would just give up on us this year and reroute to somewhere drier. Like the Sahara.
The guys went back the next day to try again. The snow had mellowed just enough for the car to make its slow, heroic crawl up the hill. We cheered like a pit crew when it finally pulled in, frosted like a cake.
That Easter, instead of egg hunts in meadows, we made snow bunnies. We dyed eggs next to a roaring fire. We drank hot tea like it was mulled wine. And when the sun finally showed up (on the day we were leaving, naturally), we laughed, because of course—it was the Easter that snowed too hard.
Moral of the story?
Never underestimate spring in the mountains. And if the Easter Bunny ever asks—yes, he definitely needs snowshoes.
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