So Sierra and I are heading to Shanghai to work and Darren is joining us. If you're reading this, you probably know that by now. (Yes, I can appreciate that for being the central theme of this blog this opening is pretty weak. But I'm going to set the bar low and congratulate myself on improvement.)Before abandoning our home turf just days from now, S and I are in Idaho visiting her family. Winter has struck early and there is snow slowing our travels, but my bro-in-law Ethan and I agree to make the most out of it by waking early the day following Thanksgiving (likely our last real turkey-day for a while) to drive to Grand Targhee for some early season skiing. We arrive to the resort to find stellar conditions, with two of the resorts chairs opening for the first time this season, and intermittently blue skies revealing epic views. Yes, I'm going to miss this.
(Stoked to be skiing... good luck spotting any trace of anxiety about my impending move)
(Side stepping up from the Sacajawea lift to access untouched portions of a nearby cliff band.)
The storms that have blanketed many of the western US ski areas have presented us with an abnormally deep cover for newly opened terrain. Throughout the day Ethan and I have become more and more audacious in negotiating an inbound cliff band, with each adrenaline inducing drop culminating in a feather light touch-down and clean run-out. Ethan launches off a 20+ footer on his teles and despite a little trouble on the run-out his landing is butter smooth. Ethan eventually assists in lining me up above a solid 40 foot cliff, and after a few strategic turns, I'm ready to point my sticks straight to go airborne off a rolling take-off. At that critical moment, I hear a shout from the small spectating crowd gathering on the mellow groomed run below, and I spot a ski patroller waving me away from my target. I comply, but not without some reluctance.
After finding a less objectionable route through the rock band, the patroller intersects my path and asks me if I know what is under my landing. Trying not to sound to snide, I answer "rocks", figuring this is probably the answer he's vying for. Rocks is really a pretty safe answer if you go down far enough.
Really, I don't have a problem with the interruption. Maintaining safety is his priority, and safety would certainly have been a casualty of my thrill seeking. Anyway, Ethan and I snap the photo below on the next run when we reexamine the potential drop from below. It is a butter landing, but wow, that plunge might have stretched to 50 with the speed I'd have gained with the rolling take-off. Despite my (irrational?) confidence that I would have stuck it, I'm content chaulking up the patroller as a stroke of devine intervention (as much as I believe in such a thing, that is.)
(If you care to look closely, in the middle you can see some bold turns toward the cliff and a not so bold traverse back away.)
As it stands, Sierra and I leave for Shanghai in four days and I'm still whole. Perhaps by the next time I'm on skis, my urge to take risks will have dulled when faced with the enticing combination of powder and cliffs. But I won't count on it.
