Most of the storms that matter here arrive after midnight, upslope off the Rampart Range, quiet as anything. Plow Pros is out in them, headlights throwing two cones into the falling snow, blade down, working street by street while Colorado Springs sleeps. The passes are laid so the piles land where they will not bury a mailbox or block the corner sightline, and the walks get shoveled behind the truck. Ice control goes down last, on the shaded aprons that would otherwise glaze over by seven. Whoever backs out at dawn will find clean pavement and never know what hour it took.