Leaky Buckets

   Bombs away, Bridger Bowl 2012 The feeling of gliding through bottomless powder is almost indescribable. It must feel similar to being in outer space, floating through existence full of joy. When I launch off the edge of a mountain side down a hideously steep slope littered with stumps and boulders into a field of fluffy white powder, there is a whooshing in my ears, an exhilaration of excitement and fear. I am addicted to the feeling because I know how wonderful it feels even though my lizard brain is wired to be terrified of this exact action. I have attempted to hike up some of these mountain slopes in the summer that I fearlessly descend in the winter and am astonished at the incredible steepness. Somehow, by strapping on 185 cm boards to either foot, I am comfortable hurling myself off vertical drops where a tumble could mean death. That is the joy of skiing, the thrill, the soft landing, a face full of powder and a laugh.  I have spent thousands of days of my life skiing. Doing