We should’ve known what we were in for the minute we saw the weather report: snow. Lots of snow. But, when it comes to youth hockey, a little winter weather can’t stop us from hitting the road for a tournament, even if it meant traveling to Salmon, Idaho, in what felt like the middle of a snow globe in the pitch black night.

It was one of those weekends where the cold seeped into your bones no matter how many layers you wore. The snow was relentless, a constant reminder that winter was in full force, and I swear my toes were numb before we even made it to the outdoor rink. But we hockey parents knew how to make the best of it. We huddled around buddy heaters and a fire pit we had set up near the rink, passing around hot chocolate and hot cider, each mug customized with a little "extra"—a dash of something strong to keep the chill away. It was almost like a winter tailgate, with everyone bundled up, steam rising from our drinks, and a shared determination to survive the cold.

And then there were the kids—not just our players, but the younger siblings who were also bundled up, waddling around like tiny, overstuffed marshmallows in their snow gear. They’d found a whole new game of their own: going family to family, asking for loose change so they could run to the concession stand for snacks and hot chocolate. “It’s only a dollar!” they’d plead, holding up their soggy gloves, already caked with snow. It was impossible to say no. Soon, they were making rounds like seasoned salespeople, pockets jingling with coins, faces red from the cold, with gloves that were somehow always damp and never quite dry. We watched them running back and forth, each one of them grinning like they’d just pulled off the heist of the century.

But the real show was about to start. It was one of the late games, and the snow was still coming down hard—so hard that clearing the ice between periods seemed pointless. The teams agreed: skip the zamboni. I think the other team thought our players might not be able to handle it, that the snow-covered ice would give them the advantage. Maybe they thought our kids were too used to clean, smooth ice, and a little snowfall would trip them up. They had no idea who they were dealing with.

As soon as the puck dropped, it became clear that this game would be anything but ordinary. It was like watching hockey in slow motion. The players tried to skate, but the thick snow covering the ice made each stride an effort. They looked like they were skating through oatmeal, their legs pumping furiously while their progress remained hilariously slow. The puck was no better off—it moved about two inches before it got stuck, covered in a layer of white. The players would come to a sudden halt, frantically looking around for it, only to realize it was practically buried right next to them. Passing was a joke—the puck would barely move, and more often than not, it would just end up lost in the growing piles of snow.

From the stands, we couldn’t stop laughing. The kids were giving it their all, but it was like watching a bunch of determined little penguins, slipping and sliding through the blizzard. Every time someone managed to get a shot off, the puck would just stop halfway to the net, leaving both teams scrambling to get to it, only to find themselves in a snowy traffic jam.

Despite the absurd conditions, our Jr. Steelheads didn’t back down. They pushed through, fighting against the snow and the cold, and slowly—oh so slowly—they managed to get the puck to the back of the net. One goal. Then another. You could almost see the other team’s shoulders slump as they realized our kids weren’t giving up. They might not have been able to pass more than a few feet, and they might have looked like they were skating through molasses, but they had grit. And that’s what mattered.

The final buzzer went off, and somehow, in that snowy mess, the Jr. Steelheads came away with the win. The kids cheered, raising their sticks high, and we parents cheered too, the sound of our voices echoing through the snowy night. It wasn’t the prettiest win, but it was one we’d never forget.

After the game, we all huddled around the fire pit again, the kids swapping stories about how they’d managed to keep their balance or how they’d lost the puck three times in the same shift. The younger siblings came back too, faces flushed with victory—maybe not on the ice, but at the concession stand, where they’d apparently bought every last packet of hot chocolate and a dozen candy bars to split.

It was a day where everything went wrong in the best way possible. The snow didn’t stop, the ice was a mess, and the kids could barely skate, let alone pass. But in the end, none of that mattered. We had our hot cider, our fire pit, and our team—snow-covered, soggy gloves and all. And really, what more could you ask for at a hockey tournament in Salmon?