I am not naturally tempermentally inclined toward downhill skiing. I adore the mountains - give me miles and miles of trail, a water bottle, and a good pair of runners and I'm in heaven, but this business of falling down a steep hill in semi-controlled fashion runs absolutely counter to my nature. Nevertheless, one can't live in Whistler without skiing, so I have persisted (or rather, Rob has persisted in shoving me out the door.) I am therefore happy to report that for the first time this season, I felt a sense of genuine joy and anticipation on the ride up that almost entirely obliterated the customary anxiety.
Perhaps this is what all the fuss is about.
It's the kind of air that hugs your shoulders like a lace stole, settles sweetly on the tongue with every breath. Snowy things also settle in this unusually warm weather:
In these short winter days, the close dim light can become oppressive though, and one gets the urge to rise above it all.





Leaning the decreases toward the body produces a tidy, almost invisible join:


