Winter here in the West has not been, by a skier’s standards, the finest. But nonetheless, we’ve found cold and snow, sporadically, with effort, and with great bouts of spring-time warmth in between. In a forest service cabin, on the mountainside, in the depths of Cooke City. It’s been a winter of mourning for a hound dog that kept pace by my side for fifteen years, and so I must say that everything in this landscape feels slightly off, tainted with grief–both mine and others.
Finding a tiny powder window in Hyalite.
But this is life, and mountains, and climate change. And you carry on, and you look for the glimmers.
Don’t you drink Outdoor Vino at the trailhead after a day of backcountry skiing?
Five wolves running the ridgeline in Yellowstone.
A coyote in Yellowstone.
You stare at photos as if they might be all that’s left, but the truth is they’re just a metaphor for what stirs your heart.
Rest in peace, dear Tucker.
It’s easy to give in to the pattern of working life, to convince yourself you don’t have time. My three jobs are wearing me down this winter. Friday, I nearly turned the wrong way on a one-way street. Cause: burned-out brain. I try to remind myself that being outdoors is the thing that brings relief and recovery. I spent the last two days skiing with fabulous women. Good times. Vitamin N (nature). Powder. Trees. Trees covered in powder. Tonight, lying on the couch, I feel exhausted in the right, relaxed way. Revitalization achieved.
Powder hound, Rupert, breaking trail for the ladies.
Amy, getting her grin on.
Headed towards Monday, and more snow on the way.
After being sidelined for two weeks with a stubborn flu virus, I finally got out today for a few laps up at Lolo. Lungs still aren’t in top form, but it’s not proper to complain when you have blue skies, fresh powder, and the mountains.
New snow, skis on said snow, and light–as brief as it may be.