It was kind of a game some 50 years ago when I lived in real north country — northern New England, that is. From mid-October, my friends and I would be scouring the weather conditions, almost daily, to see if skiing was on the horizon.
I worked for a campus radio station that had a continual feed from the news wires, and I suppose what must have still been some form of the National Weather Service. Then, if a wisp of hope presented itself, some positive report of flurries or a mention of accumulation, the plan would be in motion.
There was only one plan, naturally — pack the car and go.
Where, you ask?