I push into my turn, edges holding, and again and again, I bounce from side to side, digging, turning, carving, doing half figure eights, a line of S’s running behind me like a blue pen tracing where I’ve been.
Just as I wrap up my thought on how fabulous it is that Day 1 of a ski day is about to wrap up without a face plant, the snow snake makes a nasty appearance and wrestles me to the ground, pulling me flat on my hip bone, stomach surfing my way down the remainder of the piste.
Luckily, his bark is louder than his bite, my snow cloud more impressive than the actual chute.
Too good to be true, and dammit, I totally got caught getting cocky, easing back into lazy skiing, regressing into how my mother taught us to ski in our single-digit years, heavy emphasis on style and skis glued together, a technique totally obsolete with today’s carving behemoths, and fudge a duck, this face plant serves me right.
My previous sticks forgive such an error in judgement, for I am eternally radin, a penny pincher, and in my thirteen years in Colorado, I never offer myself a brand spanking new set of holy grail sticks. No, no, I settle for the second-hand, seasons-old, pock-mark loves of another owner, happy to meet my budget, unswayed by the lure of a new design, new technology, light, faster, better.
That is, until riding my cousin Morgane’s newbies, Swiss-made powder skis, feather weight, strong, dependable, flexible, pink perfection.
This is dangerous territory, I find, for not only does the snow snake nibble my pride, but he also forces me to bite from the tree of gear heads, and damn, now I see just why, oh why, Graham spent an Indian taxi man’s salary on his Icelantic beauties.
Movement, you are pretty groovy.