“From every mountainside, let freedom ring.”

Two hard kicks and the crampons sticking into ice. Three turns of windbuff in a pocket. Locking into the rail over cheesegraters. Driving. Driving more. Twenty feet behind the snowplow when you see the dual orange lights flashing above, guiding you on, thirty five miles per hour in the veil of pow. Double lifts. Fries at the summit house. Beer in the shower. Putting on wet gear. Skins drying on the curtain rod. Duct tape on ski poles.
Moguls. Backscratchers. Yelling. Polish donuts. Tree taps. Face shots. Face shots. Shot
skis. Getting the shot. Digging pits. Wishing in June. Diving in in December.

“I came to the conclusion that man’s search for freedom is embedded in our genes. That’s what everybody wants.”

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