Something is happening to the men of Southern California.

It happens every October. The beaches are still beautiful, people are walking around in shorts and the weather is perfectly suited to doing absolutely nothing.

Yet a certain population of men has begun preparing for winter as though they’ve received classified intelligence about an approaching invasion.

The snowboarders are mobilizing, and I know this because there’s one in my life.

He’s been shopping for new snowboard pants, securing his Ikon Pass and studying winter forecasts with the intensity of a man preparing to launch a satellite.

Apparently, El Niño is coming, and every snowboarder in California would like to know exactly what that means for powder.

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Not rain. Not flooding. Not whether the gutters need cleaning.

Powder.

Suddenly, the weather has become a matter of enormous personal significance to men who spent the summer wearing flip-flops and forgetting to put on sunscreen.

I have learned more about projected snowfall in the Eastern Sierra than I ever expected to know.

Mammoth is no longer a mountain; it’s a developing situation.

Big Bear is on standby, and every storm system forming over the Pacific is being evaluated for its potential to interfere with ordinary human relationships.

This is one of the great contradictions of living in Southern California.

We have beaches, palm trees, year-round sunshine and people who pull out their UGG boots when the temperature drops below 65 degrees.

Yet the moment snow appears in the forecast, an entire subculture begins planning to drive several hours into freezing temperatures, strap themselves to a board and repeatedly throw themselves down a mountain.

Voluntarily.

For fun.

My goodness, the preparations are extensive.

There are boards to wax, bindings to adjust, boots to inspect, jackets to evaluate and apparently pants that are no longer sufficient for the upcoming season despite looking exactly like last year’s pants.

The Ikon Pass must be secured.

Group chats must be activated.

Road conditions must be monitored.

Then there is the most extraordinary development of all: the return of the sleeping-in-the-car conversation.

“What do I need to sleep in my car?”

Excuse me?

We are adults.

Some of us have mortgages, retirement accounts and preferred brands of orthopedic pillows.

Yet grown men are once again discussing whether they can comfortably spend the night folded into the back of a vehicle so they can wake up at dawn and chase fresh snow.

Apparently the answer involves sleeping bags, insulated pads, layers and a willingness to disregard several decades of personal comfort.

All I know is that the answer does not involve me.

I am absolutely willing to accompany someone to the mountains.

I enjoy snow. I enjoy beautiful scenery. I particularly enjoy sitting beside a fireplace with a hot toddy while watching other people engage in vigorous outdoor activities.

I will even wear a cute sweater.

However, I will be staying in a hotel or a ski lodge.

Somewhere with a bathroom, a mattress and preferably a person whose job involves bringing me beverages.

You and the boys have fun in the parking lot.

I’ll see you at après-ski.

What fascinates me most is the sudden transformation in these men.

The same person who cannot commit to dinner plans three weeks in advance will happily organize an elaborate mountain expedition based on a weather forecast that might change by Thursday.

He may not know what he’s doing for Thanksgiving, but he knows exactly where his snowboard is. He’s already bought it a new roof box.

A man who ordinarily considers a two-hour drive an unreasonable burden will cheerfully leave Los Angeles in the middle of the night to reach Mammoth before the lifts open.

Traffic on the 405? Unacceptable.

Hours on the road to reach fresh powder? A sacred pilgrimage.

It’s the annual migration of the Southern California snowboarder, a creature uniquely adapted to living at sea level while emotionally residing at 9,000 feet.

I have to admit, there’s something wonderful about it.

In a city where so many of us spend our lives staring at screens, worrying about work, and trying to optimize every waking minute, these men are genuinely excited about going outside and playing in the snow.

They have found something that makes them feel like children again, even if that means sleeping in their cars like college students who have misplaced their dorm keys.

So I support the annual migration.

I support the new pants, the Ikon Pass, the weather obsession and the spontaneous departures when a storm rolls through.

I support grown men having something they’re ridiculously excited about.

I’ll even join them in the mountains.

Just understand that while they’re chasing powder, I’ll be pursuing an equally important winter sport.

Finding a comfortable chair near a fireplace.

Mary Kay Holmes is a Los Angeles writer covering culture, modern relationships and the increasingly absurd business of being a person.