Grand Targhee

I struck out alone last Thursday for Grand Targhee for a little solitary skiing. Just me and my iPod. Incidentally, the shuffle option can make for some odd juxtapositions of music to circumstances. At 40 or 50 mph, my skis chattering alarmingly against the hard-packed snow, the iPod chose to pull up "Next Time I Fall" by Peter Cetera and Amy Grant. Not only was the music tempo a little incongruous with the moment, but the song's message made me feel like the cosmos was announcing my violent demise. I skidded to a stop and skipped ahead to the next tune. I will not allow Peter Cetera to dictate when and how I perish. Nor will I have Amy Grant harmonizing with his prophecies of doom.

The temperature at the base area was 7 farenheit when the lifts opened at 9:00 am. The wind chill at the peak was -25. Temperatures that low hurt. It's like a blanket of pain covering each parcel of exposed skin. "Blanket of Pain", by the way, would make a great title for an Iron Maiden song.

I bundled myself well for the conditions. My scraggly attempt at facial hair perfomed well its function and kept the blowing, stinging snow off my face and frozen into my whiskers. If I could grow facial hair off the end of my nose, I would have avoided the patch of dead skin I suffered at the very tip of my snout. Another consequence of facial hair growing off the end of my nose, however, would be a significant and noticable loss of friends.