For years, Michigan has participated in a sizable coalition of locations that observe the customs of winter. These customs involve, among other things, ice, snow and temperatures below freezing. The coalition has long been largely united in honoring winter — until now.

This year, pieces of the United States’ coalition representatives staged a rebellion, dodging nearly all winter customs in favor of conditions commonly associated with spring. The reasons for this rebellion are yet unknown, but for quite some time, the fractious faction was successful in its efforts to avoid winter.

Unfortunately, while winter was being held at bay, we in the rebel-controlled territory had little opportunity to enjoy the season on the ski slopes. Temperatures above 40 degrees brought only rain, and try as we might, it’s simply not fun to ski on wet grass and mud; it just ends in misery, depression and mud-caked bindings (not that I know this from experience). But our sorrows were not permanent.

After some time, the faction’s determination eventually was weakened by the superior strength of the larger coalition, and all winter customs quickly returned to the humbled rebels. The rebel dominance was first broken with an ice storm, followed by a thin blanket of snow, all accompanied by freezing temperatures. Like Narnia backwards, winter had returned after a long absence.

To celebrate the return of the land of ice and snow, I made a trip to Mt. Holly, a local ski hill. Since I prefer to avoid large crowds, I decided to arrive in the morning; I expected the Michigan ski crowds to follow their typical pattern: sleep in the morning, ski in the afternoon. Sadly, I was wrong; it seems many others shared my desire to celebrate the weather.

When I entered the parking lot, I saw several school buses expelling crowds of small- to medium-sized humans. Though this was not the ideal development, I thought there might be enough hill for all of us … until several more school buses pulled into the parking lot. And a tour bus or two. I began to wonder if a cruise ship, having taken a wrong turn off the Caribbean Ocean, might pull onto the shoulder of nearby I-75 and let its fun-seeking passengers swarm the hill. Every ski hill has its saturation point, when there is enough wax on the hill to make even Madame Tussaud shake her head in amazement; I was certain the parade of school and tour buses — eight school buses and four tour buses, as it turned out — would push Mt. Holly’s limits.

For the first hour or two, I was pleased to find that while I would have been happier with a smaller crowd, there was enough space for us to ski without the effort morphing into a schussing cattle drive. The hordes in the lift lines seemed to grow smaller by the time they reached the top; this benevolent phenomenon defied explanation, but to be honest, I didn’t ask many questions about it. I just enjoyed the open spaces.

Eventually, the persistent throngs began to make a successful voyage from bottom to top; still, we could all still ski with relatively minimal caution. There were times I reduced my speed for safety’s sake, or even paused at the top to wait for a particularly clogged run to clear a bit. But even then, for a while, the hill seemed to withstand the onslaught of the crush of people-haulers in the parking lot.

At noon — the time I had mistakenly expected the crowds to arrive — the hill finally seemed to become overmatched. I was slowing or pausing more often, and the tops of the runs were full of snowboarders securing their back feet to their boards (and skiers glancing with amusement as they began their runs without such mundane delays). But before I’d arrived, I’d set 12:30 as the end of my ski day, so after a few slow runs down the crowded hill, I was happy to leave Mt. Holly in many, many other hands.

During my three hours on the hill, among all the relatively typical sights — butter knives (see below); needlessly “pretty” skiers; overconfident skiers and boarders — I did find one concept imported directly from the highways and cashier or bank teller lines of America.

We are all familiar with the sight of someone gabbing cheerfully on a cell phone while traveling 85 miles per hour, or while mystifying a poor cashier or bank teller with cryptic nods and baffling gestures. These sights are just another part of the landscape of the modern world, along with white iPod earbuds and poorly-written emails. But my morning on the slopes added a new sight to my world: a person talking on a cell phone while traveling down the hill.

I can understand the use of a cell phone in a car. After all, unless you’re a NASCAR driver, driving isn’t often a destination activity; it’s a tool to get to a destination. And I can even understand the use of a cell phone in a checkout line, if only because such mobile technology is particularly effective at minimizing good manners and simple courtesy. It all registers in my mind. But schussing while yakking had never even crossed my mind.

To my apparently feeble, old-fashioned mind, ski hills were a destination activity, not a large, cold, expensive phone booth. I always thought the most enjoyable technology on the hill was the ski equipment, not the phones. But thanks to that enlightened Mt. Holly customer, now I know the truth: cell phones are the only destination. The world is my phone booth.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get my skis ready for my next phone trip.

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[“Butter knives” are those inexplicable snowboarders whose lives seem to be dedicated to scraping all loose snow off the beginning of a run. Their knively activities can occasionally make the beginning of a steeper run particularly treacherous. If anyone can give me a good reason for this — other than “It’s too steep,” because that’s not a good reason — I am composed entirely of ears.]