Don’t even try, it’s not palindromic. Was that a cat I saw? Backwards? The same. We try and travel to the deep and the steep in search of that perfect drop-in, and ski out. Avoid the nasty snow snake and the treacherous tree-well. Ski deep and steep in the glades. Are you wearing your noggin bonkin stopper? Better be.
So the elevation excesses have beckoned and lit a street like a beacon to the ole Metron B-5’s. Waxed and honed, slippery and sharp, these sticks crash and bash through crud, powder, ice, and hard pack. I have even been known to cruise a groomed trail buckin’ a C Note if the way is clear. Also, on the Tube of Yours on the Interweb Thingy there are previous expeditions exposed.
Some Day I will have the hemlock heather to heave to and gett’er done a bit of Helli Skiing. Oh for a few miles of Champagne. Unencumbered by the flotsam and jetsam of hill polluting novices. Those runs can be like waterskiing without the tug of a silly ski-boat. So we endure the inured fall lines to the commercialized resorts. Twin rodentia appendages flying on the chase of my lid. Notably noted by the notable on the incline.
I only ski for one organization: The Five Oh Ski Team: emblazoned on my back like a thorn amongst roses. Maggarett calling me from the Kalohna Olyanha Hiway on his Bell 500 phone vehicularly mounted. Khono will meet me on the scene. More dithers than dallies that this Black Dahlia can handle at times. Plunging down slopes till the knees get rubberized. Then a few cruisers to relax and back to the crash-pad.
The open air, wide open spaces, the smell of the wild, land spreading out so far and wide, Cheap Manhattan just give me that country-side. And you say I can’t sing! I chant like that, beating back the Snow Snakes as I surf my skis through the crystalline mass. Narrow chutes, drop-offs and drop-ins. Fluff and fodder flying as I pole for another turn in the glades.
Now I know what you are thinking: what the hell is he doing skiing in a bunch of air fresheners. Too right chew are. Notta gonna happen. No need out there, the air is fresh and wide.
So the trek continues in Revy, more snow, trees, elevation, and untracked out glades. Steep drop in bowls, chutes, and 17 mile run-outs. Not even in the slack country. Next time. Metrons fire on all cylinders, slashing and bashing through crud, glades, woods, spruce, and cedar. Getting so hot working through the forest, breathers are opened, goggles off, and neck cuffs open.
Baggy knees. Slip that Java in the mug slowly Mannheim.
Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side. Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau.
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