The conditions were perfect.

The trail free of any unexpected bumps.

There were two inches of fresh snow. Just the right amount.

The sun shined brightly and visibility was clear.

It was a weekday (of course, I only ski on weekdays to avoid the masses) and the run was clear of bodies.

The pitch was perfect… Clean. Fast.

And so I pointed my skis down the mountain and let them do what they were created to do…

Fly.

Carve.

Respond to my desires and allow me to trust them.

Gravity pulled me down the mountain, and offering little resistance, I quickly found myself on the edge.

The millimeters of sharpened steel slice through snow and hold me in place.

I go to my outer limit of being in control.

The place where exhilaration borders vulnerability.

No, it’s not for everyone. And in many ways, I’m not really talking about skiing or speed.

But for me, this feeling is the juice of life. The rush. The party. The raison d’être.

The edge.

Where life is fullest.

 

How good is it on the edge?

I skied that run weeks ago.

And I still can’t stop thinking about it.