From The Snow Leopard Manuscript-page 10
The ascent is always a match for stamina and purpose. It is testament to the hardest of efforts. The descent; a display of power, style and garnered skills, an accomplishment so transient and fleeting, yet so personal it is seared into memory like scar on flesh never to be erased. Thirsty, soaked with sweat, falling snow, freezing wind, numbed fingers and toes, tired legs, cramped feet, blisters, heavy boots, a gnawing hunger from hours of hiking through deep snow, all are forgotten at the summit, just before dropping in for that first turn.
You never see an eagle at the resort, or a raven floating on a wind current an arm's length away from your shoulder; hovering, silent, obsidian feathers shining in luminescent hues, their one eye staring as if to say, "I see you here on knife-edged ridge with me." In the forests and glades quiet skiers flash down through deep snowfalls in sprays of powder far away from the hum of machines and the babble of conversation. In the hinterlands of wood, branch and bough the stillness and the wind are the breath of the universe; the heartbeat.
The deep snow skier knows something happens up there, it's not about glory or prestige; it is about what touches the soul. The snows of winter become nature's playground. The mountains reveal themselves in fields of splendor, thresholds of wonder; pristine, dangerous, alluring. They call in a pure song that beckons and pulls one away from the resort and into the wilderness, where infinite lines, steep faces and immense bowls lay at your feet like wild beasts who know your scent and bid you welcome; welcome to their world.
The solo skiers are not unusual. Alone, climbing high through forests, past creeks that spout and flow from rock, above tree line on windswept ridges and barren cliff tops they climb, sweat and endure in order to plunder snow filled faces and bowls. By themselves they understand, there is no one else, but rarely if ever do they feel alone.
Spike was one of the old timers who had been climbing and skiing for decades. It took years to know the snow the way he did. On big powder days charging through deep crystals of untracked snow I would run into him, all the time, up there where it was steep and the snow was deepest and hard to get to; the best places. He would extend his hand and say, "this is it man, it's the only place to be," or after hiking together and summiting, standing at the edge of an entry into a beautiful, untouched panorama of virgin powder he'd look at me with this huge grin before speaking my favorite words, "go ahead bud, take the shot, after breaking so much trail you deserve first tracks."
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