As horrible as it is, the shitstorm down here means the white stuff up there. I got a taste of it this weekend; two days of fresh powder. One day, Bert and I went up behind Hoodoo and lapped a rolling hill of fluffy, light, snow.
Doing it in style.
Trying to ski down a hill with skins on.
Loving the pow.
There's a rock in there.
Overnight the cascades got dumped on again. Lauren, Eric, Peter and I drove to Willamette Pass and went in search of more powder. Only two lifts were running, so we found some abandoned groomers to skin up. We climbed to just below Eagle Peak where there was a steep pitch of thigh deep powder and stopped for some lunch. The snow was deep, but light as a feather. I managed a handful of turns that just glided through the snow like butter. We cruised the rest of the way down to the parking lot and stopped into the lodge for a hot beverage.
Now I'm at home where it isn't as dismal. There is still a sheet of water coming down outside and a comprable downpour of snowy city pictures from up north. In an attempt to salvage our day, Lauren and I have retreated to the warmth of my living room to make soup, eat a loaf of sourdough bread and read papers on a cozy couch. Hopefully that mountain snow will stick around for our next adventure, but for now, this will do.