A Sunday. Mid-season. Prime conditions. One out of four decent lifts operating. Maximum waiting time at said lift: 5 seconds.
What does this tell you? It tells me that it's freakin' cold. -29 C (-20 F) according to the thermometer at the base. Winds gusting in the 20-30 km/hr range (where's that fancy windchill chart...). Bundle up, boys, it's gonna be chilly.
One a half runs into the day and we head in to check that our fingers and toes are still attatched. In the lodge we run into basom and wildbill and discuss the weather. They head out for their first run looking like NFL linebackers while we wait for the thawing pain to subside. Ten minutes later we're heading out the door and they're heading in.
"How was it?" we ask.
"G-g-good," replies wildbill. That's the last we see of them (perhaps the pansies bailed? ;) ).
We manage to string together three runs before heading in for lunch. The snow is wind effected, leaving solid, but edgable chalk in some places, and dense, untouched wind slab in others. It's a little bit of hit and miss, but with a little aggresion the surfaces yield some sweet turns. And for those in the know, a hike over to the other side brings sheltered fluff to the fortunate few.
After lunch the temps rise to a balmy -22 C (-8 F) and we ski non-stop. For the last run we again hike over to the sweet stuff. Shin to knee deep snow is our reward as we explore new territory on a hill we thought we knew.
Sick and ashamed and happy (and, basom, have I got a drop for you),
d.
