It was a day that was already ordinary in the best way. The skiing had been very good. We skied a narrow shot dubbed Room for Two. Snow was good. Line was fun. Stoke was high. Sun was out. Life was good. We skied an exit, which, if you were an inbounds skier, would have been the most fun run of the day but which, for us, was an afterthought. We fist-bumped, and I began driving home.
I didn’t realize it at that moment, but such an extraordinary experience had indeed become ordinary—not ordinary in a ho-hum or yawning kind of way, just, like, yeah.
A few miles down the road, I picked up a backcountry hitchhiker who needed a lift to his car. He described the lines he and his partner had done, the schwacky approach, the once-a-year nature of their descents. We looked off the road and up at where they’d skied as we drove. The world whizzed by the windows. It was a good day.
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