Just about this time last year, my friend Carter and I took a wander over the hill to Mammoth Mountain, a ski resort in the cold and blistery Sierra Nevadas. The drive up was a long one, and we stopped at an absolutely disgusting Japanese fast food restaurant. I ordered some kind of beef bowl, and the beef did not look at all real. But moving on, we arrived in the middle of the night, in a light blizzard, and could not see a thing. It took all we had, there were four of us, to make it to the door of the cabin we were staying in and get our bags inside. We were greeted by three other friends that had already set up camp, and we all sat down to a game of Coup, a card game, until the real fatigue set in. On the next day, a Saturday, we hit the slopes early, renting our skis and trying to make it to the lifts before the large mob of people that comes with a large and popular skiing place. This evidently did not pan out as we thought it did, but the lines moved quickly and we got to the top of the rock in moderate time. I of course, did not immediately choose the black diamond slopes, as I am a less than amateur skier, instead choosing to follow the blue and green signs on the mountain. Carter, on the other hand, quickly chose the more difficult paths, and that choice often sent him and his snowboard flying.
Sorry I don’t have any images, I had trouble uploading them, I will get them up as soon as possible though!
We both hit our groove at an area with abundant small jumps and rails that tested the fiber of our snow-travel apparatus skills. Carter would try flips and jumps and all sorts of neck-breaking, thrill-seeking ventures, while I just tried to land whatever jump I went off, making about half or so. Before we knew it though, our time skiing came to an end, and we settled in for a night of board games and Monkey Bread, waiting for the next morning when we would test our mettle again.