Skiing, President's Day/Valentine's weekend at Mt. Tremblant, Quebec. Annual pilgrimage to St. J.C. Killy and St. J. Frost.
Post ski, walking down the street in front of L'Hotel du Mont Tremblant, the sign reads: "Attention! Chute du Neige!"
Lucky me, I was walking up the sidewalk when said event occurred. Just outside the Pub du L'Hotel du Mt. Tremblant.
I thought it would never end. The whole roof of the place cut loose on me. It was a bit warm (only a few degrees below zero, Fahrenheit) so I had my hood down. Hoods serve as quite a good funnel. I just stood there and took it, looking sadly into the window of the the pub, as the snow-devil converted me from human being to 'Frosty the Snowman' in a few seconds.
Aye, but I'm a canny lad. You see, we were domiciled in said hostelry, and that pub was our home from home, and for the laugh I gave the locals I didn't need to buy myself or my party any of our pints of the Labatt's Bleu served in a glass shaped like a cowboy boot for the rest of the weekend.
Of course, I'm still digging snow out of my crack...