It’s a classic blue-sky powder day in Utah.
Thousands of hungry riders line up at the bottom of one of those famous canyons, idling their rigs, ready to fight for the last parking spot… if they ever make it up. Around 11am the road opens, and the masses are herded from one line to another. Shuffling through the cattle chute, ID scanned, the lift breaks so there’s another holdup. I assume that eventually some incredible powder skiing was had.
as it’s sometimes called, heading south on I-15 for a few hours looking to make a run for the desert. At this point in the season, my skis had waited in enough lines, wallowed through enough champagne powder, and were fixing on making some new lines somewhere else. The jet stream was busy all winter delivering big storms to the southern ranges, building up a snowpack three times the average. I’m drawn southward by historic snowfalls and the promise of new lines, memories of red rock spines, but there is something more.