BIG BEND NATIONAL PARK, Texas -- At one point, we huddled together, stamping our feet to keep warm while we fumbled to unwrap peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

Around us, an uncommon snowstorm had frosted the Chisos Mountains in 5 inches of snow. Blades of yucca plants were filled with it. Pine trees drooped with it. Needles of prickly pear cacti were caked with it.

Standing in a cold and misty Boot Canyon while we ate as quickly as we could, I tried to explain to my sister that under normal circumstances, we'd be basking in sunshine about now.

Hiking to the South Rim of this vast national park each New Year has become a tradition for my husband and me. Usually, we begin the day in long pants and sweatshirts. By lunchtime, we've zipped off the bottoms of our convertible pants and stripped down to T-shirts. We might even sweat on the return trip of the seven-hour hike.

Not so this year. Snow fell the day before our annual trek, and the place was bedecked in powdered sugar.

This was the first year that my sister and her husband had visited the park. It'll be gorgeous, crisp and clear, I'd told her. Bring your sunscreen.

And it was spectacular. But in a wintery, ice-capped way that few visitors get to see. Despite our shivering, we felt lucky.

We spent the morning scrunching up the trail, which climbs to about 7,500 feet, noticing the tracks of ringtail cats in the snow in front of us. The higher we got, the thicker the blanket of white.

As we climbed, we passed a backpacker on his way down. He'd spent the night on top, peering out of his tent in the moonlight to see a bobcat walking across the shimmery snow.

We paused to lob a few snowballs. The air got colder. The wind grew brisk. We crossed the saddle, and realized the top of the mountain was shrouded in a white, swirling cloud. We were socked in.

We pressed on, hoping that the murk would part when we reached the edge of the South Rim, home of the best view in Texas. After about three hours of uphill, we reached the lookout.

We hesitated. The clouds bucked and rolled like white water in a raging river. We couldn't see much.

And then, as if it was part of a planned private performance, the clouds broke. We could see for miles, all the way to the rumpled hide of the desert floor. We forgot about the cold and soaked up the expansive view: snow-encrusted up here, where we stood, but dry and brown for miles below.

Like that, the curtain closed and the show was over.