The temperature at Beaver Mountain, just outside of Bear Lake, Utah was around 45 when we arrived for an afternoon of skiing last Monday. That means that the air temperature felt a full 75 degrees warmer than it had at Grand Targhee the week prior. You're failing miserably at hiding your overflowing interest in that statistic, reader.
It was the first time Shannon and I had skied together in about two years. Shannon undergoes a personality change when she clicks into a pair of skis. No longer mild-mannered and deferential, Shannon will ski away from you, cutting you off mid-sentence, if she decides the conversation is dragging on too long and cutting into her carving time. When she wraps herself into a tuck, she's not trying to look cute. She's reducing her wind drag so she can whoop you in the race to the bottom you didn't know you were engaged in. When she beats you, she doesn't laugh about it and give you a friendly slap on the back. She's already halfway up the lift, yelling back that you better hustle because she won't wait for you at the top.
We had a great day with Shannon's dad, sisters, and youngest brother in the balmy temperatures. Kayla, Shannon's sister, provided us with the Who-Would've-Thought-It head-scratcher of the day. She proved one can perform a spread eagle even if one only catches three inches of air. It's a motion too quick for the eye, much like Chuck Norris killing six people with a roundhouse kick and all you see of it is a slight twitch in his right quadracep.