Saturday morning Jake and I joined two other buddies for our somewhat annual backcountry ski tour. You know how there are some adventures that for some reason become a treasured memory? That will be this weekend’s ski trip for me. I can’t put my finger on what exactly made it so magical but for some reason, it really was.
Jake and I arrived at the trailhead before everyone else. With the mountains to ourselves we headed out for a quick lap ahead of the crew. When we reached the top of the first pitch, the crew was starting up behind us so I opted to wait. Jake really wanted a few extra turns so he headed back down. For the first time in forever I had the skin track all to myself. I had nearly forgotten the pleasure of skinning alone. The beauty in the labored breathing, the ache in the legs as they moved me upward, the awe of the mountain as I paused to catch my breath. Each time I repeated the cycle I fell in love, over and over again.
Two thousand feet later, back in the company of friends, together we absorbed the gift that is a hard earned mountain summit. A quick sip of coffee and a snack had us ready to go again. An approaching storm began to roll in as we each dropped into the bowl below, perfect creamy turns awaiting. With each turn our smiles grew wider.
After our perfect Friday night I doubted the trip could get any better. I was wrong. So wrong. Maybe it was the group of friends (love these guys!), maybe it was the snow conditions (out of this world!), maybe it was the oh-so-painful but totally worth it skin up the mountain. No matter what, this trip was one for the books.
