Some people play golf, some people play poker, some people sit on their asses and bitch about things they know nothing about, and some people strap skis and boots to their packs, climb a mountain, and ski down the other side. Any activity that requires snow shovels and avalanche beacons is pretty damn fabulous.
We met up with a Sacramento resident who is a professional window washer (it's about professionalism, not cleaning windows) and bona-fide adventurer from the Hemingway school of battling Nature with a grimace of fatalistic determination and a belly fulla booze (slight exaggerations, but Papa was full of shit too). Camped in closed campgrounds (at least they had the decency to leave the latrines unlocked), next to hot springs with tubs full of naked skiers from San Diego (all dudes, naturally), and on the shoulder of "closed" highways. Tried to conquer a narrow couloir that simply laughed at us. Tried to assault a slope that pissed on our plans. Settled on a reasonable north face who accepts backcountry skiers like a down-and-out whore. Meanwhile, off for some sketchy scrambling over tricky talus. The pucker factor was in effect.
No epic powder, but plenty of epic driving. Consumed enough burgers and shakes to choke a burro. Beats ramen noodles and Indian MREs. Washing up in a sink, overwhelmed by the odor of sunburned flesh, dried sunscreen, muscle-straining struggle, and the occasional baseball-sized contusion with no apparent cause. A little bit of HAFS goes a long way in a packed to the ceiling '97 Saturn with Wu-Tang on the tape deck and philosophical musings in the air.
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