A joystorm to cap a perfect day on the Brighton slopes

Always time for one more run

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The Brighton slopes are as blank as a shaken Etch-a-Sketch, except for the ski tracks that depart from the tops of the chairlifts and trail away downhill like jellyfish tentacles. Snowflakes the size of number 18 dry flies float through the frosty Brighton air as lazy as dust motes in a hot summer church.
But when I exit the lift and scream down the hill, the lazy snowflakes fly past me like Stormtrooper lasers. My skis bite into the snow with the satisfying crunchy crispness of a paper cutter cutting through starchy sheets of construction paper. Few things feel more satisfying than smooth gliding and crisp, crunchy turns!
The falling snow has filtered out nearly all the sun’s strength. What light reaches the ground is flat and gray. No highlights. No shadows. And because of that the contours of the ski slope have no visible texture, no defining edges or features. Any subtle terrain features are as hard to see as gray ink on gray paper.
The light may not have been very good, but the new snow is perfect. About 15 inches of famous Wasatch powder. The snow is so dry I think it could only have formed from vermouth fumes.
So despite the flat light, the new-fallen — and still falling — powder has skiers and snowboarders in a bright mood. And our moods, like the weather, is about to get even better.
The trail I am skiing down is a familiar one that I have skied down many times in the last month that I began skiing, yet skiing down it today in this strange, flat light makes it seem unfamiliar. As I ski down the unfamiliarly familiar corridor, I know that the hill I am skiing down will soon steepen, but it, like all the terrain, is camouflaged in the gray on gray light so, even though I am expecting the terrain to steepen, I am still surprised when I feel the hill drop out beneath my skis in an express-elevator-to-the-basement kind of way.
But the grayness — and the flat light with it — are suddenly swept away, and in very dramatic fashion, and I am fortunate enough to be riding the chairlift when it happens so I’m privileged to sit there and watch the magical event unfurl around me.
One of my favorite things about skiing has always been riding the lift back to the top, with its incredible views scrolling slowly by.
It’s shortly after 11, sometime after my third or fourth run down the hill, when the last curtain of snow is drawn aside to reveal the sun standing on an empty blue stage, mid-soliloquy it seems, and it creates a dazzling coruscation across the new snow and the appreciative smiles of everyone on the slopes.
Watching the twinkling snow curtain draw away to the east was much like watching a ship pull away from the port with all its passengers waving their white handkerchiefs.
Blue shadows roll into the mountain’s crevices and chutes like blue mercury. While the troughs, gullies and northern sides of the hills are bathed in blue shadows, the hilltops and south-facing slopes are starkly bright. Like looking into the Ark of the Covenant.  
With the departure of the clouds, the temperature on the slope begins to rise, but the joy of feeling the soon-to-be-Spring sunshine on our faces is immediate. The lift lines instantly burgeon from five deep to 30 deep as skiers hurriedly finish their coffees and cocoas and leave the snack courts to return to the hill.

This is my fourth day of teaching myself to ski. I spent my first three days pushing myself to improve, and that meant tackling terrain that was always just a little beyond my abilities. They say that if you want to be an Olympic gold medal skier, you have to ski right on the verge of crashing. Well, heck, I guess I’ve been skiing like a gold medal Olympian for the last three days!
But this is the last afternoon of my last day of skiing until next November; in just a few days I’ll be leaving for another season as a river guide. So I want to spend my last afternoon on terrain that’s both familiar and within my skill level. So I ride the Majestic ski lift to the Snake Creek Express and ride it to the top of the mountain and spend the rest of the day riding the Sunshine Trail (how apropos on a day like this!) my favorite trail at Brighton.
Sunshine is a green circle trail. Nothing complicated. No tricky terrain, but because of that it’s very appealing to other beginner skiers who are snowplowing, flailing and careening their way down the hill.
At the top of the hill, I negotiate my way through some clots of beginner skiers but I’m soon past them and I look ahead of me and see that the lower portion of the slope is completely empty of skiers.
I spent a lot of time skiing Sunshine on my second day of skiing and it’s good to be back on its simple, yet elegant terrain. I’m not an adrenaline junkie.
I’m not interested in doing twisty jumps, or rail slides or getting sick air. I’m one of those people who is perfectly content with the simple sensation and exhilaration of one slick plane gliding smoothly over another slick plane.
Sunshine is a broad boulevard with a pleasing mixture of gentle rises, dips and curves and pretty soon I fall into a rhythm, sashaying back and forth across the snow like a seismograph needle recording a mild earthquake, my skis going shhk, shhk, shhk, with the same sound and rhythm of a razor being sharpened on a strop. It’s such a great feeling!
With the clouds now gone, the temperature rises 20 degrees by the time I’ve finished my first run down Sunshine.
I take off my ski jacket and stuff it into my little backpack, and while I’m in my backpack, I take out an apple and eat it contentedly as I ride the lift back to the top.
I spend the rest of the afternoon riding Sunshine, making perhaps eight or nine more runs, each run a little more satisfying than the last, just enjoying the thrill of making crisp, rhythmic turns.
To help you understand just how joyous of an afternoon it was, let me drop a little science analogy on you.
A snowflake begins as a single water molecule when supersaturated air holds too much water vapor and the vapor wants to condense into water droplets. But before the water vapor can transmogrify into a snowflake it needs a nucleus to attach itself to. The nucleus is provided by microscopic dust particles suspended in the air. With the nucleus provided by the dust particle, the condensation process can begin and as more water vapor attaches itself to the hexagonal lattice of the original water molecule, the snowflake grows and grows.
Such was my joy that afternoon on the Brighton slopes.
Three weeks ago, I began my downhill skiing adventure with nothing but tiny particles of curiosity, determination and a love of trying something new.
But when those particles of curiosity and determination encountered an environment like Brighton’s, supersaturated with adventure, scenic terrain and thrilling runs, it soon turned into a perfect little joystorm.  
I’ve heard of the skiers high. This must be it!
Finally my quads are too burnt to do even one more run. I pull out my cell phone and check the time. 3:20. The lifts close at four. I want to ski until the lifts close because the snow is perfect, the sun is bright and warm and my contented soul is beaming with equal wattage.
My spirit is willing but after continuous runs since 10 this morning my exhausted legs are wobbling around like the back of a choristers arm, my quads burning like those of a Machu Pichu Phidippides.
I think back to my first day of skiing. On that day, it hadn’t snowed for more than two weeks and the terrain was icy. My ski instructor had warned me, “Be careful today. It hasn’t snowed for a while and the terrain is icy.
With conditions like these it’s going to make it hard to stop.”
But he should have also warned me about days like today: Blue skies. Sunshine. Warm temperatures. Twenty inches of fresh snow. With conditions like these it’s going to make it hard to stop.
Ok. One last run!