Boots? Check.
Widespread, cracking, woomfing, propagating snow instability? Check.
With our semester's finals over and nothing but pow in our future, a group of friends and I loaded the essentials (whiskey, M&Ms, and ski gear) into a car and took off for three days of skiing in the Southern Madison Range. We had rented out a tiny forest service cabin tucked deep in the Gallatin National Forest, away from all responsibility except to ski. We skinned in the 3.5 miles, the one sled present loaded down with an entire keg of Bozeman Brewing's finest ale, and dropped our packs at the cabin. The next several hours were spent perfecting our adventure-skinning techniques, fighting off the grasp of shrubbery while trying to maneuver our skis over deadfall. The touring-to-skiing ratio was heavily skewed toward touring, but provided both an excellent workout and an exercise in tree trimming. The next day dawned early with huge hunks of bacon in tow (Red, the dog contingent, slavered away to no avail). We tiptoed across creeks over snow bridges, fought off the forest once more, but did end up atop a pristine snowfield that we promptly decimated with ski tracks. That night, after several rowdy rounds of drinking games, culminated in a naked backflip under the stars, several barefoot laps around the cabin, and a quick and shirtless lesson in tele skiing. The final day found us touring up a ridge toward a distant peak, but when the snow suddenly whoomfed, settling into a scary silence while cracks shot out and up the steeper slope ahead of us. Needless to say, we hightailed it out and lapped the nearby meadow for hours on end, sculpting kickers, creating perfect figure eight turns, and smiling in the sun.
