Saturday, December 31, 2005

Cancel my subscription to the Resurrection
Send my credentials to the
House of Detention!

I have a newfound, deep obsession with meteorology.

The technology on the internet is such that I can get pinpoint forecasts via a number of sources. The National Weather Service has incredibly accurate, detailed information on their website. I check multiple online sources each day, including, but not limited to Doppler Radar, the NOAA (The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, which is the premier source, by the way... one-two from me to you),, and a reliable source on the ground at Big Sky.

It's kind of like being one of those idiot storm chasers... except I am not driving around Kansas in a truck, striving to put myself in the path of a tornado. Just waiting, scheming, plotting and planning what will be the optimal day and time to ride at Big Sky.

It is discussed in hushed tones amongst the cognoscenti around town, but usually after the fact.

e.g. "Went up to Big Sky Wednesday."

"Last Wednesday?! You mean 15" dump Wednesday?!"

*cue Cheshire cat/shit-eating grin*

Prior to such an event, however, one casually makes half-hearted plans with others to ski, with all the honesty of a shifty-eyed fisherman giving advice on the "good spots." It is much like the would-be, Frat-Boy Lothario collecting "digits" from the "honeys" on a Friday night, only to go home and discover that the number on the napkin is for an Off-Track Betting Parlor.

See, plans with others entail logistics, like "meeting," and "picking people up," and "coffee," and "did you eat?" and "oh shit, I forgot my hat," and "I just need to ski a few blues to warm up," the sum total of which is Delay.

And when it comes to powder, Delay is a harsh, evil bitch of a mistress.

See, when you're a true powder whore, you want it all to yourself. Sharing is for kindergarten, and I don't know if I mentioned this... but I am a grown-ass man.

Order your own fucking dessert.

So, we plot in secret, tell half-truths to each other, all in a wicked dance of deception aimed to maximize fresh tracks.

^That is what it is all about, my friends.

Once you get to the mountain, you must know exactly where you are going to go. It is a race with other powder pigs to get to the prime, untracked terrain.

The scene around the tram to the very top is almost funny. We circle like starving vultures to get one of the first rides up.

(I reveal no secret here, as the tram accesses the steepest and most technical terrain, which scares off most people, which means more for me... but where I go from there is classifed on a Need To Know Basis... and you, dear readers, Do Not Need To Know.)

Once in the tram, everyone shoots sidelong glances at each other, and speaks in secretive, hushed tones to their partners, as if they were whispering in a player's ear at final table of the world series of poker.

Basically, it is ten or fifteen people, crammed into a tiny box suspended a hundred feet over the ground... and they all look like they just stole something.

Everyone on those first few tram rides internally unleashes an evil chuckle and hisses Exxxxxxxcellent...

And when that door opens, we all scatter like roaches when the lights come on.



Happy New Year to you all.

Today, India and I are going for a little backcountry cross country skiing adventure.

Tonight, it is going to snow.

Um, yeah... sure, I am going boarding on Sunday. But, maybe I'll go Monday.

Oh, you want to go?

OK, sure. I'll meet you at skrzmchmffshzzle.

Sorry, dude, you're breaking up.

Gotta run!