A famous pose is plagiarized. Blizzard is on our minds. As Chevalier noted, "this will be the culmination of all of our ski-film highlights." Still pushing against the wall of jet-lag, we hit the streets in search of jambon and fromage. The glue that holds the Alpine soul together. Cheese and meat and bread. Repeat. No one could mistakenly see stars tonight... something up high was blowing. After the concoction known as Tarteflette was ingested, it was home to bed for an early rise of gear rental for Red Ryan and Zip-Loc. Chamonix. 

The encounter with the ticket office didn't go well. The internacional behind the window could not wrap her brain around why Red and Zip-Loc would return to Milan, then back to Chamonix tonight...

Riding on the Aiguille Du Midi tram will stir the most hardened of skiing souls. The combination trams ascent 9000 vertical feet. For a Colorado kid like myself, that is the equivalent of sending a ski lift from Denver to the top of Long's Peak, vertically. Or from Boulder to the top of Bear Peak three times. There is not a lift attained experience in the Western hemisphere that matches it. Or any of the hemispheres, for that matter. The Tram is one of the true religious icons of our sport, regardless of your feelings on ski lifts. Not to mention that when you disembark, you step smack into the opening scenes of the greatest ski films of all time. What shrines of skiing match up to the Aiguille? The Strief downhill course. Alf's High Rustler. The tram at Jackson. Even the twice-bombed telepherique at La Grave pales in vertical to the Aiguille tram. It stands alone. 

Drawing Plake's ire in the Edge Of Never outtake interviews was the number of Alta stickers in Chamonix... and in all of the shrines. Alta stickers on the Aiguille Telepherique. Alta stickers on the warning sign for the Valle Blanche. Alta stickers at the summit station of Grands Motets. The Gospel According To Plake is canon that I hold near and dear... somehow Glen is able to wrap his brain around all 360 degrees of skiing's past, present, and future, and from this generate an opinion that is dead on. Or at least in line with skiing's true heart. But I disagree with respect to the Alta stickers. I appreciate that they may represent ugly Americans bagging on Chamonix. The truth, however, is that anyone who has been to Alta to earn their sticker, and subsequently makes the trek to the Alps, knows damn well that the Aiguille routes dominate Baldy the way that Redwoods tower over Aspens. The Aspen gazes on the Redwood with respect, yet holds its own beauty. The stickers are left as penance, as artifactual offerings from a regional Cathedral on the steps of the Basilica, the high altar of skiing. They each represent a different yet vital core of the spirit of skiing, interacting to fuel the magic of our sport. Powder symbiosis. 

The bootpack. Chevalier has been fearing the worst. Garvey even relates that a woman had just weeks earlier slipped off of the track and landed- barely- in a crevasse, preventing her from launching over the N. Face of the Midi. All told the crowds were non-existent, as the base was reporting high winds and minimal visibility. Still reeling from the high of stepping off of the telepherique, we made quick and esthetic work of the arete. The hype generated with regards to Le Valle are all well-earned. The terrain is huge. Words cannot relate the extent of huge. Even a front row seat courtesy of Keith's guidance on the Grand Envers variation leaves little doubt that the hugeness of the coming week will make the very recollection wince in its lack of stature. 

The most important, most consequential and moving of experiences in my own life, are often lost in the amnesiac of adrenaline and poignancy. Wedding day? Lost. I looked back up at the rusty tower astride the Aiguille Du Midi, realizing I had already lost the fine detail of the snow tunnel, the platform, the Poubelle, the boot pack. The long check-list of ski lore ticks in my own life was in danger of losing its top objectives in a big hurry. Fortunately I cling to a doctrine that has been born more of personal stubbornness than insight; Skiing is like Life. The more that I experience, the less I realize that I know. You can't forget the Aiguille station until you have passed, in a state of adolescent bliss through its midsts; only then will it be added to the non-memories of your life's top-10. In this way I was again re-born into a child-like fascination with all that helps to make skiing so precious and meaningful to me. A long prelude has been spelled out... now begins a new chapter.

A  powder day on the Vallee Blanche? Madness. 

Keith explains the legend of the Chouca birds representing the spirits of the dead mountaineers, and we are unfazed due to Red Ryan's relaying that his sister wants us to keep our eyes open for frozen cave men, "and other artifacts. You know- shit frozen in the glaciers that is finally resurfacing." 

After a hike and train ride out of the Mer De Glace, Zip-Loc and Red were making the trek back to Milan Malpensa, this time without the kryptonite known as Chevalier. The trip that he understatedly described as "Denver to Vail" would take them the rest of the evening. Thankfully, snow remained on the Midi, and Keith wanted some more. Fromage and beer, and back to the Aiguille Du Midi for round two. This time we unloaded at the mid-station to begin a skin beneath the North Face of the Aiguille for a miraculously untouched powder stash called the Plan Du Midi... and with a view. How does this terrain, so close to the tram, remain untouched? Too much hugeness, too few people on an Easter Sunday's Eve spent in the highest of churches.

But as it can tend to do when covering 9000 vertical feet, the snow gave way to goat paths and trees. Spring hiking, in AT boots. We emerged adjacent to the Chamonix ski jump, and passed through the hippie parking lot lurking behind the telepherique station. Gap years done huge. Acres of combi vans and the un-heralded heroes of skiing nonsense. To spend a winter living for free in a Chamonix parking lot is subject for a different day, a different life then, aye brother? 

Chevalier and I made quick work of the Euro crowd hot tub, then Roclette fromage mania on the town. Red and Zip-Loc returned with the remainder of their gear, and it was a snowy, optimistic romp through the streets of Chamonix, preparing for the superunknown, the pending start to the Haute Route, starting with Les Grands Motets. Jambon, Fromage, beer, repeat, bed. Chevalier's mantra rings strong tonight as we are pounded with snow even some 9000 feet below our objective: "All we need is a foot." 

All we need is a foot. A quiet night will soon make way for Glory, alpine back-country style. And the bags had arrived.

I love it when a plan comes together.

But this was not cabin fever. This was the brainchild of Aaron LaVanchy, popularly known throughout Ft. Collins as "The Professor." The invite still didn't compute in my head. Something about a self-supported ride up the Cache La Poudre canyon to Cameron Pass- a distance of over 70 miles that few of us were geared up for this early in the season along a suicidally narrow shoulder- with an unspecified end date, "depending on how fast we are moving." After a wintery ride to the pass, a back-country ski trek would ensue on South Diamond, followed by a slog home, a cold and wet 70 mile return trip. True to the non-competitive community that New Belgium has fostered, Professor added an almost unnecessary caveat: "this is not a race, and spandex is not required. If you don't want to do the ski part (not sure why), you are more than welcome to come along for just the bike and camp part. Hope you can make it." Ride and not ski? Madness.

A shocking notice to receive, but even moreso to imagine that THC would become a reality. The few and the proud turned up on the morning of April 30th, however, and the leap of faith began. New Belgium had decided not to help sponsor the ride, given the potential conflict of interests, anagramatically speaking. Of all those invited, only Hard Cores Aaron LaVanchy, Eric Unger, Sadie Skiles, and Kristine Weyer were bold enough to make the trip. Gear was attached creatively and efficiently, with the promise of fresh snow lurking at the northern terminus of a stretch of mountains named, fittingly, the "Never Summer Range."

The crew left Ft. Collins on Friday afternoon, riding the initial 40 miles to Glen Echo resort for beer and dinner, followed by a nocturnal 10 mile push to find a camping spot. The next morning was met with the final 20 miles biked to Cameron Pass against a brutal North Park headwind, strong enough to ring the bell on Unger's bike. True to form for the charmed life of Professor, the clouds broke just in time for skin tracks to be laid and turns to be made. Sensing the clouds building ominously over the Nokhu Crags to the West, the Hard Cores retreated at full speed back to Glen Echo for pizza, beers, and blueberry pies. Per LaVanchy, "I think we were the only four in there with a full set of teeth- but they gave us a hero's welcome when we rolled in. People came out of the bar like it was the Tour de France. Since the resaturant was already closed, they had to get the owner to unlock the kitchen for the pie." After another night of camping in the Poudre Canyon, stuffed on pie and lactic acid, the foursome rode home to the Fort through snow and hail, though all were happy, and earned the moniker of "THC."

All told, the first annual Totally Hard Core included 140 miles of riding with 5300 feet of elevation gain, plus another 1000+ feet of skinning. All participants received custom-made commemorative belt buckles crafted from recycled Colorado license plates. LaVanchy, himself an avid backcountry skier, hopes that the event will become an annual tradition. "People seemed stoked or thought we were freaks." When cabin fever or similar madness strikes your neck of the ski-country woods, nod your hat to Professor and his belt-buckled friends, living the dream for all of the spring-fever sinners, and ride your bike to the nearest alpine skin track. Who knows? There may be some rogue pie in it for you. 

2 April 2010- Writing from Hotel Le Priure in Chamonix

Every corporation has a CEO.

Every wolfpack has an alpha male.

Every Disneyland has a Mickey Mouse.

We have Chevalier.

Chevalier is a force of good in our group. In all honesty, he is probably not the alpha male- but he does have a knack for being in the right place at the right time. His opinions are generally spot-on. And, for several years, Chevalier has pined over the Haute Route. It has been his own personal big-one, the driving force in a life already largely dominated by the ski industry and the international ski scene.

The eldest son of a commercial airline pilot, Chevalier leveraged the free plane tickets to back-door his way into a jet-set lifestyle from a young age. He was in Berlin when the wall came down. He will regularly attend baseball spring training. As a college student in Denton, he would fly to Salt Lake City and spend weekends in Little Cottonwood Canyon. Chevalier revolves in and out of international scenarios more effectively than an amateur James Bond. After college, he lived in a variety of ski towns, solidifying his magic touch while working at the Little Nell for just one season, which happened to be the snowiest in Aspen’s history.

In fact, Chevalier has only one nemesis, a black-hole in his jet-set mojo every bit the equivalent of kryptonite. And that nemesis is the Milan-Malpensa international airport. Two Christmases ago while on a vacation with his fiance’s family to the Dolomite Super Ski and Chamonix, the chink the armor was first exposed as luggage stored in plain sight at Milan was not released until his future father-in-law had an old-fashioned Italiano stare down.

In the fourteen months since, Chevalier has learned Italian and become entrenched in Milanese culture. He has a discerning nose for espressos and Margherita pizzas. So confident was he in the defeat of his Achilles heel, that on this, our personal conquest of Chevalier’s greatest ski triumph, we were advised against flying into Switzerland and instead routed into Milan-Malpensa.

Yvon Chiounard said that “it’s not an adventure until something goes wrong.” From the onset, stuff went wrong. Zip-Loc and Red Ryan were told at the boarding gate that they were, in fact, not ticketed to Milan at all. At the zero hour, due to Chevalier’s magic, Ziploc and Red Ryan were granted not only entrée to the Milan flight, but were seated in International Business Class. Mojo restored… until landing in Milan to find that all of their gear, all randonee and touring and mountain snobbery combined into a few very precious bags of cargo, was gone. No trace. Some gate agents said Zurich, others said Paris; check back at noon, they said. If not, then definitely 4:30. And if not then, super definitely at 8:00.

Needless to say, the gear didn’t arrive. Chevalier knows no pain like the passage through Milan-Malpensa, and now it was wearing off on us. Not by 4:30. Not by 8:00. Maybe it’s in Kathmandu. Who knows- maybe this will inspire legions of Kathmandu baggage carriers to take up back-country skiing. So now, due to an executive order laid down by Chevalier, lead knight of international travel, we are sitting on a Swiss train rocketing through the Rhone valley towards a rendezvous with a French cabbie who is prepared to shuttle us the rest of the way into Chamonix. It is the right move, says Chevalier. We have a hotel in Cham, and tomorrow we ski the Vallee Blanche. The next day, Grand Motet. Haute Route. And it’s snowing. My gear arrived safely, so I choose to avoid conflict by writing about airport kryptonite, but Zip-Loc and Red Ryan question the motives.

I sit confidently, aboard the cleanliness of the Swiss rail system, staring out at the grandeur of the Haute Alps. I rest easy. Outside, the landscape is growing exponentially more ruling with every minute on the train. Lurking peaks and snowy torrents riddle the couloirs and basins high high above. I rest easy because this I know: Chamonix is not Milan. It is an entirely different country, a different planet even. From our base camp in Cham, the mood will change. Gear can be rented. Mountains instill more calm than an Italian metropolis, even big, gnarley mountains.

But the most important factor of all, and the real crux in favor of the argument to head to Chamonix, even without our gear, is this- the more distance that we can put between Chevalier and Milan, the more his mojo will shine. And right now we are rocketing away from Milan-Malpensa as fast as the Swiss rail system will take us, and into the graces of Chevalier’s golden touch. Good riddance, Milano! Bon jour, alpha male!

Follow well in order, get your weapons ready,

Have you your pistols? have you your sharp edged axes? 

Pioneers! O pioneers!

30 March 2010. 11:53 PM. It is late on a Tuesday night and the gravity of the project now known as "Four Saturdays" is staring me in the face. There is no poetry in my scrambled mind tonight, save for the eloquence of a neatly crafted gear pile, my own homage to dad's Type-A packing disorder instilled at a young age. Pioneers, o pioneers. Whitman comes to mind; our weapons consist of wood core p-tex 2x4's. The sharp edged axes relays an adequate description. Mean Jean eyes my planning with an uncertainty that I have not seen in her before. Four Saturdays will certainly test the aerobic potential of my own being, the internal dialogue I have not engaged with in years, and the numbness to the fact that danger looms in a more realistic way when separated from family by a continent, a train ride, a high-alpine tour. Even now, last night at home, and my mind has already logged out of this version of myself and into some interim passenger. 

For we cannot tarry here,

We must march my darlings, we must bear the brunt of danger,

We the youthful sinewy races, all the rest on us depend,

Pioneers! O Pioneers!

Four Saturdays is a new slant on our current project in the making. Our trip to ski the Haute Route neatly bookended by Colorado epics in Aspen Highlands and Silverton. We should have known. The previous La Grave encounter was preceded neatly by a big dump in the Highlands Bowl. And so it is, deja vu all over again- last Friday night over Prosecco as talks turned to the following day, the storm puking outside, a build-up of blower taking March out like a lamb, Chevalier's mantra echoes; "All we need is a foot." 27 March 2010, Mean and I report to Highlands with a lonely aching in our wintery hearts, and as first chair deposits us in a Temerity that is modest if reporting a foot, the first shoe has fallen. The hike to Highland's Bowl is minus one red flag, but in a season shy of powder, gifts us with the winter's best run. 

O you youths, Western youths,

So impatient, full of action, full of manly pride and friendship,

Plain I see you Western youths, see you tramping with the foremost,

Pioneers! O pioneers!

We are all leaving our significant others behind, and the excitement must be internalized. This is healthy. The wit-sharpening timidity is serving as yin to the giddy's yang. Red Ryan, Chevalier, Ziploc and myself leave for Zurich somewhere north of midnight. It had to be Zurich, we have repeated. We have to arrive in Chamonix by train. Our heroes always arrive by train- with or without mohawks. Funk is somewhat of a daredevil, and our Prime Deity for the coming nonsense. 3 April 2010 we ski the Vallee Blanche. Second Saturday, as well as major life's-to-do-list, checked. No Funk-Flops. No girls. No communication. Just us versus the Alps, the great storied peaks of wonder that inhabit the childhood sketch-books of one million school kids' daydreams. Why is it that every alpine pursuit is always met with early doubt? Am I the only one with this bizarre ubiquity? From the smallest lump of rock to the highest ascents of my own life, the wall of confidence's void must always be overcome. 

All the past we leave behind,

We debouch upon a newer mightier world, varied world,

Fresh and strong the world we seize, world of labor and the march,

Pioneers! O Pioneers!

Following the Vallee Blanche we embark Eastward, away from our past, and into the lore of youthful visions. Clambin Crew in Verbier- check. Haute Route-check. Leading to Third Saturday, and the descent into Zermatt. Big fat check. Is it any wonder I cannot sleep tonight? My head's dialogue lacking its written translation, a jumbled anxiety. To bed with the words of Walt instead, my last night at home for some time; should all go according to plan, Fourth Saturday will be icing on the cake. Words to follow, processed through the dirges of a spirit lost in the Alps, at least through my mind's eye. 

All the pulses of the world,

Falling in they beat for us, with the Western movement beat,

Holding single or together, steady moving to the front, all for us,

Pioneers! O Pioneers!

The early season of touring was met by equally early-season conditions- of snow and of our collective abilities to ascend with grace. This is a learned skill set. The skier’s version of a fly-cast. Repetition and dedication breed style. This motion is hard to duplicate in the off season. Push it, says Cable. Keep moving. The ubiquitous beauty of this woods goes unnoticed as sweat burns our eyes. Eyes and thighs, burning. Calf muscles, cramping. Visions of Grand Motet. Of Valle Blanche. Verbier. Fleeting visions. Obscured by sweat in my eyes.

The free heel collides with the ski- Clack. 

The ski touches down on the snow- THWAP. 

As with all alpine pursuits, we find our pace. I prefer to lock into a song. Unfortunately, climbing in the woods is a largely silent endeavor, and the clunky rhythm of our randonnee bindings in the early season seems an exaggerated version of irritating. Clack-THWAP. Clack-THWAP. Sounds like The Ramones. I don’t much care for The Ramones. The pace is what it is. Now I’m stuck with The Ramones. Only slower. A four minute version of Blitzkrieg Bop burns my brain. They're forming in a straight line. They're going through a tight wind. Hey. Ho. Let's go.

The Season, however, progresses. Visions of The Goal spur us on, and the skies are helping our backcountry cause by keeping the Colorado slopes free of fresh. We discuss The Route as if it were gospel. Mythical. Day one: Argentiere over the Col du Chardonnet. Visions of this hanging glacier keep our feet moving. Clack-thwap-glide. Clack-thwap-glide. Repeat ad nauseam. Jerky guitars with some syncopation. Naïve Melody. Naïve Melody works. The original version- Talking Heads. Played in CBGBs, but aren’t The Ramones. Things are looking up. Home… is where I want to be… pick me up and turn me 'round. Home on the range. The Euro range. Vision growing clearer- probably less sweat.

I guess I must be having fun

The less we say about it the better
           Make it up as we go along
            Feet on the ground
            Head in the sky
            It's ok I know nothing's wrong... clack-thwaGLIDE.

One hundred miles of skiing from Argentiere to Zermatt. Every step we suffer through now will be appreciated then. Don’t want to be worrying about fitness when the vistas are infinite. Sir Ed Hillary trained for “the big one” in his own backyard. How does our 9000 feet compare to the Pigne D’Arolla? "We climbed all over the mountain." We do our best to mimic Stefano DeBenedetti. The ruse has it's affect. We are laughing.

Clack-glide. Clack-glide. Our weekly tours now contain less panting and more conversation. Cameron Pass with Lavanchy. Current Creek. Second Creek. Zero Creek. Berthoud Pass near dark… anything to log miles. Avy danger is increasing- down to the safety of the trees. Vasquez Wilderness. National Forest. Poach the area. Time under tension. What song will be dancing in our heads on the descent into Zermatt? Chevalier has his chosen. Powder day and new skin tracks. Clack-poof. Clack-poof. 

Home - is where I want to be, but I guess I'm already there. Given enough time, of course, it is always less about the goal, and the present has become equally rewarding. Finally the alpine pace is analogous to the Pacific North-West guitars that are more often than not my own life’s soundtrack. Cla-gliiiiiide. Cla-gliiiiiide. Repeat with smiles. Built To Spill- more like it. Soaring, melding guitars are the musical equivalent to a smooth tour, each note blending into the next leading to melodic climax.

The Plan keeps coming up again…

Cla-gliiiiiide. Cla-gliiiiiide. Cla-gliiiiiide. Cla-cliiiiiide. 

And The Plan means nothing stays the same… 

Cla-gliiiide. Cla-gliiiiide. 

Like it’s always been…

Onward and upward we tour, our collective pace keeping me in tune and enjoying the day at hand, perhaps more than our own Big One. But, the big one is coming, and we acknowledge its looming spectacle only once today, at the crest of a wind-blown bowl known as The 110s. Something about Apocalypse Snow. Patches like the monoskiing evil-doers on our own packs. Awesome.

Skins are stripped. Heels are locked. Goodnight, clack! Moleskin is applied. Descent music evokes glory, at least in our own minds. Berthoud pass today. Indian Peaks next month. Chamonix in April. The Plan keeps coming up again, and the Haute Route looms, as it has for the duration of modern ski history. Feet on the snow, head in the sky- I guess I must be having fun.

I am not used to defending my taste, save for my love of Bjork, which is a feat difficult to pull off in even the trendiest cliques. You can imagine my surprise, then, when my friend and former musical co-conspirator Jessen turned his nose up at a new mix that I was forcing upon him. His point of contention? "It's all been done already." This from one of my most trusted confidants, an individual who took two semesters of "Frank Zappa" lectures in college and owns no fewer than three Carl Thompson bass guitars.

I try to wrap my head around this argument, knowing that to some extent Jessen is probably right, and this bothers me. My world is crushed, and for a second I ponder selling every album newer than my copy of James Brown Live at the Apollo. Luckily I snap out of it, realizing that he is missing the point. Music is a selfish endeavor, a to be created and experienced by each new generation as a very legitimate interpretation of life. It’s the FEELING that music gives us, awakens in us, that makes it so topical and transcendent. To quote Bob Marley, "One good thing about music, when it hits you feel no pain."

To further my personal affirmation, I find a little enlightenment out my own window. The conglomerate sandstone giants across the valley from my little house have a habit of catching fire with the sunrise, and I cannot say that this morning's show is unpleasant. I am always forced to reconsider my inability to thrive as a morning person knowing that this show recurs daily. It is the simple fact that the sunrise is so predictable that adds to its charm. It doesn't matter that this has been done before; it is the FEELING of welcoming yet another day with azure skies that fails to grow old. Quoth Colin Hay, “I watch the sun as it comes up, I watch it as it sets- yeah, this is as good as it gets.”

Thankfully, my lack of characterization as a morning person is trumped by another all-consuming passion. I find myself today on the rickety has-been of a lift, the antiquated “ARROW,” celebrating the arrival of my favotire season on a week-day sojourn to Winter Park. There are more lifts open than there are runs. The area is currently sporting less vertical than Boyne Mountain. Not a soul on the slopes has a purchased ticket- everyone is a passholder in search of early-season stoke, brethren called to the hill by a force greater than ourselves. Today there is no teasing the kids with fully-loaded back country packs, or the townie in jeans and his Olin Mark IV’s, because we are all just as guilty of the same selfish endeavor- skiing for the sake of skiing. No ski-journalists from Bro-Brah rags have flocked to the hill in attempt to report on Sick Pow being Stomped, Freshies or local style. No Pow. No Stomping. Anything. No Bro. Just the few of us lucky enough to be making weekday turns in mid-November.

This is not new. These trails are not fresh. They have been skied before, and will be avoided at all costs in a few short weeks, when the meat of the hill is ripe with snow. Yet here I am. Every year. I don’t know… maybe the abbreviated hill is just a flirting taunt at the season yet to unfold. Perhaps these early days help us to appreciate the epic storms and closed-passes that are (allegedly) sure to materialize in scant weeks. But I know this much- that even on opening day, skiing is fun. The kinetic realization of sliding on snow is here again- and just as appreciative as I am of each and every sunrise that I am alive to see, I don’t fancy that I will ever take early season turns for granted.

At day’s end, after having yo-yo’d far too many reps for an area with only two skiable runs, I stumble sheep-grinned across my friend 5-Ball Mike at the store, a member of Mary Jane’s pro patrol, and clearly ready to tease me for spending the day on the mountain. “You can’t call THAT skiing,” he argues, and like Jessen’s view on new music, I take his quote seriously. Does it hit close enough to home to hurt? Nope. Not at all. And it doesn’t take long for my guts to inform me of their disagreement to 5-Ball's befuddled gaze.

“It’s the FEELING,” I counter without hesitation, and I leave it at that. Because for me, as for countless others, that is all that it ever needs to be about. The FEELING of skiing is what it all comes down to. There is more emotion summed up in even a short run on your favorite hill than can even be hinted at with the poor limitations of language. A smile generally tells the whole story, as does the mountain full of people who are finding joy on an abbreviated slope, decades into having made their first turns on the same mountain.

“So hit me with ski season, hit me with ski season now."

Marley would let me say that, and for now I feel now pain.

“Lenticular.”

In a word the rush came on- that mystical autumnal hue of melancholy that accompanies the cold west wind and all that it entails, a swirl of decayed yellow meeting the green grass at our feet, the cup of coffee held firmly between both hands.

The seasons hold different olfactory flavors, subtle contexts of feeling that we recognize only while in their midsts. Think back to the spring time; chances are you were one of the few who said to yourself “I’m glad that summer is coming.” If you didn’t actually mutter those damned words, you probably at least thought them. I know this, because I have been guilty of said fallacy in my own past lives. It comes with each season- the cumulative memories, good and bad, that encourage you to become overwhelmed with the present, the here and now, the associated seasonal love affairs and increasingly late sunsets.

It only took a second, however, for a deep brooding loneliness to surface from somewhere just east of my spleen, a foot north of my newly repaired ACL. Lenticular clouds are the internal almanac’s clue that something is happening- something fantastic, something cold, something white- above and beyond our current elevation. Myself a child of Colorado’s front range, there has long been a correlation with a stiff breeze (read: greater than 40 miles per hour) and a downpour of substance: fresh. Chevalier was dead-on with his cheesy grin- something beautiful was happening some 4000 feet higher.

Surfers are often credited with their acute knowledge and cult-like devotion to weather patterns, their entire livelihood often hinging on a hopeful offshore, a deep-sea swell, even the cycle of the moon. Often less credited is the same acuity possessed by snow riders the world over. While the Inuit are often attributed with an obscene number of words describing snow, Chevalier and I now unleash our own seasonal meteorological jargon: upslopes, lows, corn, champagne, northerlies, pineapples, cold fronts, El Nino… even “the child” bears to our land-locked highlands a ferocity reflected accurately in the aforementioned breeze. Not to mention the shelved lore from months past; P-tex and diamond files, fall lines and chutes, mushroom patches and couloirs, white magic.

The wind is known to elicit fears in many, especially transplants. This is fine. For those in the know, a release is waged with the westerlies, the internal clock’s alarm signals. For riders of snow, home exists on a white canvas laid gently from above. This translates as a gentle whisper, an awakening of the excitement for the only season that matters. Ski season is a precious and fleeting gem; it is in its brevity that we come to fall in love anew each fall. Ski season never progresses past the honeymoon stage- it is a burning love, too brief to grow stale. Each season we must grow reacquainted with our old haunts, our favorite run, the spacing of the glades, the terrain underfoot. A new love interest may sway our desires, epitomized by the trees blown horizontal to us by the increasing breeze, and the redness of our noses.

The wind begs to differ with the previous blasphemous praise of spring. My own soul howls similarly in the ongoing effort to escape higher, ever windward, into the fresh. Lenticular clouds signal a thump, thump, thumping deep in my chest. It’s time for that seasonal love to begin again, and the honeymoon has never been breezier.