Approximately 3,000 feet directly beneath the summit of the morning’s ski descent—directly not referring to fall line, but plumb line—Cody Cirillo squinted over his shoulder into the darkness. A distant rumble roared a couple miles behind the bobbing red light strapped to his skis.

“As if the bike to ski community wasn’t niche enough, I’m glad we’re in the vanguard of cycle-to-ski spelunking,” I called ahead, my voice echoing across cavernous walls.

Cody smirked and coughed in the dry, dusty air. We weren’t cycling around the base of the mountain; we were cycling through it.

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