Kristin and I had been married for five months when, one night in February, it snowed. That wasn’t so unusual. Central Idaho is often referred to as Snow Country. But this time the storm dropped two feet of downy feathers, and then, after well whitening our mile high corner of the world, the clouds blew on to Wyoming. The next morning was chill and clear and quintessential, what winter in the mountains is supposed to be, what snow lovers call a Bluebird Day.             We were penniless artists