The Gall of Victoria
By STEVEN THRENDYLE

I studied Teton Gravity Research's High Life dozens of times this winter, returning again and again to the segment featuring Kina Pickett and Jason Tatersall at Jackson Hole, where the former flashes a powder-choked line and then laughs, "White room!" Later in the flick is a quote from Victoria Jealouse: "At the end of the season I always realize that there are so few really good days. And when it's good, it's good and now's the time to do what you want to do." The gall of Victoria. Spouses and kids don't always get it when Dad goes off to do what he wants to do. In fact, they may not be around when Dad returns.

The "high life" of my season lasted for about five seconds on March 6, the first of three days of snowcat skiing near my home of Kelowna. Even for BC, Monashee Powder Adventures is in the middle of nowhere. You drive 40 km along a deserted logging road, and another 30 km on snowmobiles to get to the remote mountain lodge whose view belongs in a national park brochure. When I win the lottery I'll buy six weeks of cat-time and cocoon myself away from the world and grow a huge, bushy beard as my eyes permanently glaze over in some kind of semi-stoner haze. Only I don't buy lottery tickets.

The first morning, lead guide Herb Bleuer reported more than 90 cm of snow had fallen in the past 36 hours. "We'll have to find some steep terrain, or we won't be able to move." I thought I'd break down and weep.

Alas, avalanche conditions were pretty much off the charts, severely limiting our terrain. It was hard to find a rhythm on our forested first run: five turns, a close-out, traverse, wait for the rest of the group, then another five turns. The rhythm was White Stripes, and I wanted Death Cab for Cutie.

Our second run looked better. We found a steep chute with space for about 10 turns, and I couldn't help myself. I straightlined ahead of the group to gather speed and shot through a small knoll and suddenly lost my vision. Snow sloughed around me and billowed over my chest and smeared my goggles. I hockey-stopped just before a ghostly grove of trees where daylight ceased to exist.

When it's good, it's good. For five seconds I had blissfully entered Kina Pickett's "white room." I hoped my family would understand.

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