When my son was five, he lived to skate. While I wrote in the warming house, Chris would whip around the ice for hours, wielding his miniature hockey stick. Every time I’d interrupt, he’d protest, “I’m not tired. I’m having too much fun. Just a little longer.” When I’d finally drag him off the rink, he’d melt into a blob too weary to take his own skates off.
I do the same thing with the Crested Butte summer.