Animality
By PHIL GALLAGHER

I wanted this route badly—3,000 feet from the top of my favorite backcountry peak all the way down to the highway. Most years the snow petered out too soon in the thick lower woods for a complete run. But it had been puking for weeks. Conditions were perfect for a full descent. I was ready.

The upper bowl was majestic. Halfway down I found myself following small drainages, springs, and creek beds piled high with mounds of fresh, deep snow. There were bridges everywhere; I crossed over streams at will, skiing effortlessly and marveling at the 30-foot spaces between the trees. The highway was in sight and all that remained was the final crossing.

This one was big, and I quickly realized the only way over was to jump. Then I'd have to kick-step up the steep opposite bank to the highway. With little choice I tossed my skis across first, then smoothed out a path in the snow for a clumsy, running start to make the leap. I was about eight feet above the flowing water. Getting distance in ski boots is difficult. I was alone. Falling short wasn't an option.

It's funny how one stream crossing leads to new horizons. My inertia carried me over until my body pressed into the face of the snow bank. Only my boot toes held my weight. As I carefully crawled to the top I felt like Wylie Coyote in one of his more successful Road Runner predicaments.

I took this experience to the resort and began viewing in-bounds terrain differently. I found numerous new powder stashes in the forests. The pines harbored untold secret gullies and couloirs, and I found I could ski the lift-served slopes longer before fleeing to the backcountry to find fresh snow.

The confines of the timbers washed over me with new understanding. I ranged farther into the woods like some antlered beast driven deeper and deeper, where the white snows lay deep, still, and undisturbed.

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