Late into the night, Spencer pulled the guitar onto his lap late from the shadowed corner of the big cabin. Fifteen logs on the fire gone. Fifteen friends sitting still. Finally.

Our vision realized-a glorious March afternoon, fresh, dry snow, and a great back country ski. Step by step we climbed, always dwarfed by the massive presence of Mount Rainier. 'Tahoma' to the native Indians. Then, we snow danced down the face of Chimney Rock Ridge, until only the broad North Cascades valley separated us from the Mountain.

Our legs ached sweet, as only snow travel brings.

Palm on the neck, Spencer's fingers spoke clearly. Six strings effortlessly earned the attention of all. Toes tapping. His nod was my cue.

From my personal stash of native instruments, I offered one to each pair of curious hands. A drum. A shaker. A bell..... "Play a beat you can repeat," said I, briefly tapping or shaking to demonstrate before I handed off. No one said much. Nor did they refuse. I was hoping they would play along.

And slowly as the snow gathers, a timid trail of sound appeared. It built into a band. A flurry of rhythm. A smiling, invigorating, almost primal group jam.

Testing the new waters of a midnight's creation, fifteen friends skied into JAMTOWN.