I had heard the tales. There was this place above Lake Tahoe, known as Chickadee Ridge, that you could hike into, where the chickadees just come and land on you like it's totally the normal thing for them to do. And, as you might imagine, I became obsessed with going there. My friend Laura (Olive and Love), properly filled my head with some real-life-Snow-White fantasies. Well, the wild birds landing on me while I sing part. Not the whole poison apple part. I hoped.

But there were two problems. Firstly, it was the dead of winter, and we would have to snowshoe into the joint. Which is not something I do every day, but I was certainly game to try. Secondly, Prosecco happened the night before.

When we woke up at the crack of dawn for our adventure, my very first thought was: NOPE.

But...chickadees! Landing on your hand!

I rallied. Not gracefully, but I rallied.

After what felt like a very endless, cold trek to my hungover, out-of-shape self...suddenly: chickadees! The trees were full of them!

Bird seed for them, hair-o-the-dog whiskey in a flask for us.

Nothing cures a hangover better than a nice, brisk jaunt through the deepest snow that Lake Tahoe has seen for decades, a drag or two of whiskey, and a brush with sweet, magical little chickie-faces.