Corduroy is not just a bear; It is my skiers caviar, a snow canvas of velvety ridges that overtakes the sensuous softness of favorite L.L. Bean name-sake fabric pants. It is a frozen magic carpet.
Come with me on a virtual run. Tear yourself away from the floor to ceiling stone fireplace crackling and begging you to stay cozy. Stuff your still warm feet into iron trap boots, buckle if you can, click on the ticket , listen as skis thud in readiness on the snow. Bindings: clip clip. Jacket: zip. The soft whirling of the high-speed chair calls. Ready? Load ! Moment by moment snow covered Sawtooth spires backed by saturated cerulean sky dazzle as they increasingly surrounding us; at last we are at the top of the world. Boot tops buckled, jacket adjusted, Bruce Springsteen on; a slide a push and it begins. The bottoms of our feet start to tickle from the untouched perfectly ridged snow crunching beneath our skis edges. Singing biting gliding snow crunches and squeaks beneath our skis.
The freedom and unharnessed bliss of gliding down the mountain–minds cleared of worry and stress. Breathe in the clear, crisp winter air. Feel the incredible rush of flying down the mountain toward the expanse of the world below. My years start melting away, overtaken by the sensation of euphoric speed. More than a memory of the physicality of decades past, it is a brief return to the thrilling charge of speed–moving faster than I imagine running in my dreams. It is the essence of reality– our own Goldilocks snow experience: not too hard not to soft and, this morning, it is just right.