IN THE GLOOVILLE of my dreams, the village takes on a life of its own, with friends building 'gloos and ice sculptures all along the lake. Come April, just before the whole thing melts, our igloo society could throw a party—a snow festival that gives thanks for a wonderful winter. Problem is, no one really knows about any of it.

"Go viral," says my colleague Harold Olaf Cecil, owner of a Bend marketing firm. "We can create a Web site, make some stickers, create a logo."

Things start well. An artist friend in Maryland designs a logo with the silhouette of an igloo among mountains. I talk about the igloos in lift lines, dropping clues like "They're near Mount Bachelor" and "It's easy to ski in."

But as January slips into February, I get distracted by work and the viral campaign fizzles. Tania is pregnant. Alex gets a new job and doesn't visit for a while. "I went out this weekend, and you can just see a slight depression where the doors might be," he tells me. "They're still there, but digging down will be a bitch."

By March, Glooville wheezes under at least 12 feet of Oregon snow. "Oh, well," says Alex. "There's always next year."