The tinkling of wind-whipped crystals tapping on my window wakes me from a deep sleep, and a wide smile starts to grow on my face. Sundown yesterday came with rumors of an incoming onslaught of cold snow, setting in motion the time-honored ski bum tradition of the pow-day prep. 

The deepest days often come unexpectedly, and the lack of a definitive starting date makes the onset even more magical. Lying in my warm bed, I'm hit with the sweet realization that the stellar crystals crashing into my window pane herald the start of this year's deepest days.

It’s a season without a name. More of a feeling than a mark on the calendar. It’s the heart of winter, a time when skiers leave the world behind and lose themselves in the groove. 

Awakening to this nameless, shapeshifting season began slowly. While we were busy regaining our ski legs and laughing with friends, a blanket was building in the forest. Maybe it was the long shadows of short days that blinded us for a time. Spellbound by holiday celebrations and New Year's resolutions, we overlooked the mountain stashing the material necessary for white-room revelations. 

But eventually identification was inevitable. A series of disturbances ripped through the mountains. A combination punch of wind and pow redressed the slopes in fresh coats of dense snow. Reconnaissance missions in the wake gave reason to rejoice. A short stretch of bluebird days followed the onset of pow, revealing the full scale of terrain transformation. Indicator rocks memorized around the resort were missing from the stage, opening up previously unattainable avenues to adrenaline. My eyes strained to capture the seemingly endless supply of untouched powder. The temptation to walk beyond the boundary and into the vast backcountry tickled my mind for more than a moment, but I put it on hold. 

“If the skiing is as good as it looks, there’s time to reap, rather than walk,” I thought. 

So, off we flew.

The morning flew too, as we ticked off some of our favorite inbounds classics. All aspects were available as cold temperatures kept the crystals cool around the compass dial. By midday we were frothing. The a-ha moment that the season of the deep was upon us should have happened there and then, but the dopamine had us blinded with bliss. As afternoon clouds enveloped the hill, rumors began to swirl that another foot of fresh was possible overnight. News of this sort sets off a chain reaction in a ski town, and the insanity of the skiers is the catalyst. The collective energy becomes highly concentrated, and the village seems to vibrate. The aprés scene bounces to a tempo matching the increased pulse rates, while those of us primed for excess are pushed into the aforementioned amnesiatic auto-pilot mode of powder prepping. I for one can’t recollect how I came to be here in bed. How’d I get home? Who made dinner? Hell, who ate it? All I know for sure is that sharp tinkle against the window has a tale to tell. Content under the covers but curious about what’s hidden in the dark, I slip out of bed and back into the real dream.

Downstairs I bolt like a child on Christmas morning. What will greet me? Weather doesn’t work as reliably as Saint Nick, and the chance for a storm to fizzle is definitely real. Opening the door, it’s instantly apparent that this is not the case. There’s gotta be a foot of blower in my driveway. A valley tally like this means the mountain could be in all-time condition, so I grab my trusty shovel and start to dig. 

In the realm of manual labor, there is no more rewarding job than pushing fallen snowflakes. It feels like having school called off and building snowforts with buds. Or, snowball fights, drippy nose sled rippin’, and chugging hot chocolate by the fire. The nostalgia fuels me faster than any cup of coffee, and before long I’m on the road. The storm has let up, and the light indigo hue on the horizon hints at clear skies ahead. Can this be real?

My car feels more like a hovercraft floating into Teton Village. The quick departure from home demanded beating the plows, but it paid off. I snag a rockstar spot within a stone’s throw of the aerial tram, and everything continues on track for perfection. 

Unloading my gear, I’m struck by the high snow stacks on each individual aspen branch, evidence of little wind in the lower elevations. Higher up, the conifers appear as glowing orange snowghosts, contrasting with their shadow's blue hues. A vision of blasting through bubble bath conditions gives me a bout of the giggles, until I’m snapped back from my space-out by the sound of an aggressive ski patrol bombing campaign. I pick up the pace. 

Walking to the tram line, I’m passed by a few of the regular derelicts from the everyday crew. But this time, when powder fiending eyes lock, the typical polite pleasantries revert to simple knowing nods, and we continue hurriedly on our ways. The deepest days of winter have us hooked, but they guide us all on different paths.

The full spectrum of personality possibilities is put on display in a lift-line. It’s a heady mix of mountain enthusiasts who have collectively come together to partake in personal acts of divine nonsense. The local nutjobs share laughs with buttoned-up professionals. Ultra fitness freaks and the chemically dependent intertwine with retired snowbirds while prognosticating with high school hookies on the possible powder conditions. Some of these characters live closer than my radical parking spot, and others have come from far-flung corners of the globe, where snow itself is the dream. Their amazement at the accumulation acts as kindling, reigniting smoldering fires inside even the stodgiest of old timers. Wealth in this eccentric community isn’t derived from the dollars you hold. Skid luxuries come from the level of stoke you can provoke in yourself and others. In its purest form, powder skiing has no commercial pretense. It’s a communal magic carpet that sweeps us up on a ride of creativity, acting as both pressure release valve and supercharger for the soul. It’s the world’s greatest participatory sporting event, and we’re all on the same team. The only way to lose is if you refuse to play. 

The clock strikes nine as the energy reaches redline levels. Pass scanning starts on cue, and the ecstatic mob begins to move.

Posting up in the front of the tram car, I've got a perfect view of the situation below. It's pristine. We’ve truly arrived in the glory days of winter. Untouched fields of fresh unfurl as far as the eye can see, and I feel the smile from this morning once again forming on my face. The cable car swings past the halfway point of our journey, and the passengers quiet as they drift off into the realm of an alpine R.E.M. stage only reachable in the heart of winter. 

Yeah, there's no doubt; we're in deep, and for the foreseeable future, everything is possible. Docking at the summit, that familiar tinkling sound hits the window of the cabin as a final confirmation of my morning premonition. The tram doors slide open, and I’m back on autopilot. Wrapped up in rhapsody and living in the dream of this winter's deepest days.

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.