Report from December 23rd, 2018
Duncan Ross and I went backcountry skiing in British Columbia, Canada, yesterday.
The walk was long, the snow deep.
The sun never shone.
The fog hung on tree and rock face.
After walking for hours, we gave up on the goal of the day – hidden pillows.
On our way down, we found them.
We hiked up and dropped all we could.
The pillows were glorious, the snow exquisite.
We thrilled in falling through the air into billowy fluff in the half-light.
We finished the pillows, wiped the snow off our chins, pulled out our headlamps, and began down in the twilight of the shortest day of the year.
The twilight turned to gloom, the gloom to darkness.
Our headlamps turned the dark and gloom into a dreamland.
Snowflakes shot through our light beams like sparks.
Faceshots were waves of white that flashed blindingly and disappeared.
A lingering, powder-filled slope littered with small pillows had us hooting.
The trail home was a video game with tree branches swiping at us like ghouls from above.
Ducking, weaving, eyes racing.
We slid into the parking lot exalted, exhausted, relieved after having chalked up a quick visit to a bizarre, dreamlike, deep winter nighttime world.