Trying to do face shots justice with words

This was written by a friend of mine who shared in the goodness last Sunday. Between last Friday and Sunday, we received over 36 inches, the last 12 of which were super light pow.

Bald Hill, 3/18

i'm hanging them up.
i'm done. i don't ever
have to ski again
after the fifth and final
sprayfest: standing
in the tailing-filled
arcs woven through
hardwoods, muttering
incoherently, hoarse
and speechless,
slack-jaw dropping,
babbling, drool hanging
from the corners
of my mouth, heart
pounding like a caged
rottweiler sees a cat,
eyes popped wide,
ice-cream headache
from choking on snow,
nostrils filled and flared,
sensitive tooth tingling,
breathing fresh, oh
my, oh my, oh my...
i believe, i believe.


the day. the day. the day. yeah, john says it's a matter of
perspective, and i reckon he's right. but i can't bring to mind a better
day of skiing in vermont. (some that approach it, maybe...)

we hit it early, and we'd lapped 3 frontside (maximizing skintrack,
minimizing slog) and another off the back before we even saw another...tip of the ice berg hoardes arriving in ones, twos, and fours.

put it this way: punk kid told me friday: "yeah, sunday's going to be the day." i thought, yeah right, punk kid, yeah right. well dammit, he was. sat. was heavy and slow (and excellent, no doubt), but cap that off with another 16" of the phinest phluphph, and goddam, you've got sheets of snow piling over your face. and it snowed all morning. it wasn't face-shots; it was one big, continuous shot. it was light, lifted at the slightest touch. had to stop several times to breathe. you could ski anything and everything. holy, holy sheit.

or this way: valentine's day was said to be a 12 on a scale of 1-10. yesterday topped it, doubtless. (in my mind, imho, and also based on where and how i was skiing... many factors, none less than stellar... not that one needs compare...).

i know my penchant for hyperbole, but this is not. i've given the first ever double gold star. it's the standard now by which i'll have to measure all future runs...

on the highway-trail, we emerged from the woods, googly-eyed. one guy in a pack of four asked, "where'd you come off?" before i could think about it, i blurted out, "in my pants, i think" and skied away.

my face hurts from grinning.