Can't quite spell s-n-o-w.

Byline: Bob Welch / The Register-Guard

SISTERS - I've come to a woodsy retreat not only for the R&R but for the S&S: Snow and Scrabble.

I've all but given up hope of ever seeing another snowflake in the Willamette Valley; each decade since the '60s has gotten less flaky, statistics show, and I can't remember the last time I've enjoyed one of my favorite pursuits: simply watching snow fall. It's beautiful. So if the snow won't come to me, I've decided, I will come to it.

I've also gone too long without beating my brother-in-law-the-Beaver in Scrabble, so he - along with his family - has been invited to be word fodder for me in a best-of-seven series.

There's a certain symmetry to this Scrabblefest: He's an ex-Eugene boy who went to Oregon State. I'm an ex-Corvallis boy who went to the University of Oregon. With the two schools' respective Fiesta Bowl successes after seasons in which they beat each other, it's time to have it out in a triple-letter, triple-word, blizzard-blowing weekend that will re-establish me as the Civil War Scrabble King - and my faith in the snow gods.

Thursday night weather: Increasing clouds. Temperatures near freezing. In my book, 90 percent chance of snow by morning.

Friday morning weather: No snow. Thirty degrees, partly cloudy.

The tournament begins Friday night and, as it does, I'm reminded how long we've been doing this - competing against each other, that is. It began on a backpack trip in 1974 in the Mount Hood National Forest - we were dating sisters - when, while showing off in front of his girlfriend, he threw me into a creek and, while trying to appear cool and calm in front of his girlfriend's sister, I tried to drown him.

In the years since, we've competed at everything from golf to Nerf basketball to tacky Christmas-present buying, though with far more restraint than in our creek-wrestling days. We've sat across from a Scrabble board while our kids have gone from diapers to college diplomas. From sea level to Waldo Lake, Spokane to Eugene.

Nearly three decades of life have swirled around us as we've taken on each other. Now, as the snow doesn't swirl outside, the competition continues.

I BREEZE TO victory in Game One, 247-234 in a contest whose score doesn't reflect its lopsidedness. I give him a few garbage-time double-digit words in the waning minutes so I don't humiliate him. That, I figure, can wait for later.

Later comes. So does the humiliation. But I'm the one being humiliated. He crushes me in Game Two, 326-251, as my defense fails to show.

Friday night weather: No snow. Thirty degrees, partly cloudy. But a night of sleep, I believe, always increases the chances for snow.

Saturday morning weather: No snow. Thirty degrees, high clouds.

He pounds me in Game Three, 314-239, and rubs it in by singing the "Oregon Fight Song" with pro-Beaver lyrics. It's water off a Duck's back - though I briefly consider drowning him.

Saturday night weather: No snow. Increasing wind and clouds. A niece who has returned from skiing at Hoodoo reports steady snow on the pass; I'm sure it's headed our way. We could, I announce, be snowed in by morning.

The evening Scrabble session begins. I'm down 3-1 and lose the tourney if I drop one more game. I fall behind by 28 in Game Five but think: WWJD. (What would Joey do?)

Captain Comeback, Scrabble Edition, battles back despite the odds. My foe lays a 27-pointer on me to take a 341-317 lead and all I have left are a ``t,'' ``u'' and ``y.'' Then I see it: using an ``r'' already on the board, I spell "yurt" on a triple-word bonus square - with the ``y'' on a double-letter square. Thirty-three points! I win on the last play of the game! The crowd goes wild!

But in Game Six, I'm positioning myself to go ahead when I make the Scrabble players' nightmare of mistakes: I'm so busy planning my next move that I overlook that my foe has illegally played a proper noun: "June." I had seen the first three letters, assumed it was "junk" and mentally shifted to my next move before I saw him place the ``e.''

Though illegal, by the time I notice the word it's too late to challenge so he gets the points - and his move opens up two other big plays - "jaw" and "envy." I lose 265-255. The tournament is over. I've lost 4-2. The crowd - all one of it - grows quiet.

Sunday morning weather: Clear and cold. Chance of snow - zilch.

We return home, the figurative ``L'' (for loser) stamped on my forehead. There's always tomorrow, my mother used to say.

Monday morning weather (from the place we were): Snowing steadily, 2 inches on the ground and more on the way. "It's beautiful," says a woman who's there.

I'm wordless.

Bob Welch can be reached by phone at 338-2354 or by e-mail at [e-mail].