A Die-Hard Skier’s Ode to Slowing Down
There’s an embarrassingly daunting four hundred vert left to the summit. We slog through a foot of dense, sun-saturated, week-old, mercifully stable powder. I’m out of breath and my calves are yelling at me beneath a massive swath of oppressively blue, hot sky. I cringe when my hip flexer seizes up as a crashing realization washes over me; this is …