EXPLORE

摘要

Below are slopes of tiny skiers. They funnel toward the village, where upscale lodge life awaits. Most ski in stuttering turns, and every so often a figure comes arcing languorously through the rest before falling out of sight. I am alone. The trail I'm following winds deep into the wilderness. It's a long trudge away from the chair lifts, about an hour of boots whittling my shins until a powdered bowl lies fresh before me. The mountains back here extend egg crate-like to the horizon, the sky above shines, wispy with clouds against a deep digital blue, and the air smells like my spit-dried balaclava-a smell I've longed for since spring.