Capping off the first full-scale pow day of the season calls for something special. Scrolling through my mental database of options is merely a formality because the choice was always clear. And sometimes I save the best for last. Continuing south will bring me to fresh, north-facing blower with the option of popping a hitherto un-hit air I’ve had my sights on. 

With the selection solidified in my mind and inspiration rising, I push off into the forest below. Trees blow by as my skis accelerate to cruising speed. Contrary to the increasing chaos, a sense of stillness and solitude washes over me. I switch on the autopilot. Primed for powder delirium from the daylong dose of physical floatation, my thinking mind ceased to exist. Or maybe it was the only thing that did; I’m not sure which. 

Coming to, I notice the walls of my asylum are painted white. For a duration of time I can’t define, the only other visual clues available are subtle variations of vibrancy. Colors never before seen in the visible spectrum emerge from the void and then coalesce into familiar forms. 

My destination, a large pine keeping watch over a lofty launching zone, appears on cue, and I pull up to have a look. Inner chatter: “There’s gotta be three feet down there." No sooner has the notion resonated than a fevered flight plan is formulated, featuring calculations I wouldn’t know how to put on paper. With my parabolic path planned to the powder-padded landing zone, I go to work stomping out a little in-run. 

Packing out a takeoff provides an opportunity to ponder. I engage in a methodical tempo of sidesteps like a meditative mantra. Soon, bits and pieces of memories and dreams start to swirl, and I submit to letting my mind wander. It floats to a time when today seemed as far off as possible: the final day of last ski season. 

Months of non-stop pounding on the slopes and the intoxicating effects of spring made it easy to lie to ourselves that time off snow would be easy, even good for us. But we all knew we were in trouble. Sure, summer starts off sweet, but the snowless diversions just can’t compete with the depth of sensations supplied by skis on our feet. 

All manner of techniques are employed to replace the adrenaline void. Some will continue in their downhill descent on dusty mountain bike trails, while others reverse course, climbing craggy walls into the sky. Those obsessed with the H2O may follow spring meltwaters through raging rapids or seek the stoke provoked by a hard hit on a perfectly cast fly. True die-hards with the capital and skill to cobble together crazy travel plans may even ignore summer altogether, following winter’s wobble to the southern hemisphere. 

But, for most of the ski-freaks I know, summer is the season they put the nose to the grindstone. “Real-life” responsibilities left unaddressed need serious tending to, and depleted bank accounts in need of restocking. So, the superheroes of our winter world revert to their civilian alter-egos, all around, hidden in plain sight. It could be your aging bartender or that ultra-skilled contractor; and because snow addiction affects all walks of life, even your lawyer or doctor. What they all have in common is the ticking time bomb of Powder Deprivation Disorder. 

Rolling into fall, the dopamine supply has dwindled. A cool wind comes out of the north, and you smell autumn in the air. That just makes things worse. You tell yourself to relax, but it’s way too late; you’re fiending for pow and nothing less will satiate. 

In depraved desperation to replace the missing deep snow experience, I’ve implemented innumerable mind-altering methods. From the asinine to the mundane, anything I could think up was equally fair game. I’ve tested out the tranquility of long, destination-less walks and resorted to the quick-hitting endorphin elixir from skydive exits. I’ve settled into sensory deprivation tanks and blown out my synapses with chemical overindulgence. There’s a faint memory of sliding on skis surrounded by sagebrush and watching my buddy skin off into the sea. I’m not sure how much is real. Not sure if it matters.

The sound of my increasing respiration rate interrupts the scattered thoughts, and I stop to take a little break. The sun sinking low, the light has softened, and I find myself taking in the scene like a collection of fine artwork. With endless colors, both saturated and subdued, even a Vermeer or Monet wouldn’t create this kind of mood. Time stands still. I scan the view with the vague intent of recreating it one day on canvas, but in truth I know that’s only hubris. This scene can’t be captured or copied. It couldn’t even be created except by chance. 

Just then a raven caws, as if to remind me that the clock has in fact not actually stopped. I thank him with a smile and return to stomping out my jump. I’ve got enough room to get up to speed from here, but the snow today is special, so I think I’m gonna really send it. 

Back in sidestep mode, my brain again goes quiet. I listen to the squeak and crunch of the snow beneath my skis, and before long, flashes from the day are zipping through my head. Giggles slip out as I try to understand how something as simple as snow can create the conditions for such outstanding physical feats. We fly downhill with the flow of flawless birds. No earthbound mortal should be able to move through space this way; it just doesn’t seem possible. The high G maneuvers and weightless airtime endeavors that skiers get to enjoy leave indelible marks in our memories. But memories are mere will-o’ wisps of reality that can’t be fully grasped. That ethereal nature ensures you’ll long for a repeat. Just one more chance to experience that magic moment with hopes of solidifying it in gray matter. Cold smoke is a powerful drug. Once you’ve had a taste, it is something you’ll forever chase. Wait. That’s not fair. It’s more than an intoxicating agent. It’s a precious connection to the ineffable. Not an escape from reality but a return to our experiential roots. I’ve never been able to put my finger on it exactly, so I keep on trying. Maybe it’s futile, but it sure is fun. 

The sensation of elastic time hits me once again as a small cloud slides in front of the sun. I have one more window of light before it all goes flat; time to dip. Suddenly aware of the lactic acid buildup in my muscles, I look down at my progress. “Oh, man! I’m gonna get way more speed than I need.” Inner debate ensues on whether to sideslip down for a more conservative launch, but that notion doesn’t last long. Now I’m far too riled up to keep things mellow. And besides, this triumphant return to winter necessitates something outlandish. 

As I click in, an enthusiastic holler echoes from an adjacent glade, and I think of all the other fall-line fanatics flashing through the hills, feeling the sweet release of their own pent-up frustrations. What an energy! The rising crescendo of stoke hits me with a maniacal chemical cocktail of delusional bravado, forcing an uncontrolled grin across my happily frozen face. 

I pause in a last-ditch effort to take it all in. Two deep breaths, and I drop. Acceleration builds as I approach the lip to infinity. Mental autopilot re-engages like a fully charged flux-capacitor when I hit the air, and I’m back! Living a memory from somewhere in my future.

Stio Mountain Athlete and Jackson Hole snow reporter Jeff Leger--aka Dr. Huckinstuff--moved to Jackson as a wide-eyed teenager with an insatiable appetite for deep powder skiing and moments of extended hang time. Immersed in ski culture through the tutelage of founding members of the Jackson Hole Airforce, all hopes of him returning to "reality" were quickly abandoned. Over the years, Jeff has become a fixture in the ski scene from his constant photo and video documentation of Jackson Hole's finest flotational moments.