Review: The Igneous Raglefant

It has been an uneventful, pleasant skin up. Beautiful coming up out of the steep and shaded slope onto the sunny ridge; behind is some sweating, some slogging, and schwacking. And now we are on top. Transition made. Buckles are tight. I rock slightly to check boots are in ski-mode, look down the line, visualize the first turn, the next, onward. I take a breath. Tip forward. There is a short moment before gravity takes me, and then I am away. The front of the skis plane up. I gain more speed, skimming over the snow, a silky, slick speed. Each flake is a solid, but in mass it acts as a liquid. Speed gives lift upon this fluid surface, enables a freedom of movement, of direction, and a kind of hungry gratitude. I know I am in it. This! This is what I dream about, think about, hope for, and work for, and I am in it right now. I am not  thinking; this is simply felt. In recognition is appreciation. I dive into each turn, a happy hunger, the skis quick and lively send snow over-head, into face, I point through a gap, then, at speed, swoop weightless up onto a steep side-wall, kick the skis sideways, a crystalline explosion fills the air, fills my vision, my chest, I arc away, effortless, back down into the trough, looking ahead for the most inspiring features, spaces, the next canvas of white to point toward. This. This. This!