I could think of no better place to spend the season’s change.  Hitting the concrete running at the end of summer, I haven’t worn shoes for three months but there is something comforting about the city streets.  In a city so densely populated as this there are so many people that as soon as you hit the bricks, you disappear.  To indulge in urban delights was my goal from square one, from fast food and movie theatres, to cultural melting pots, real electronic music and big, big parties.  With the help of a few good friends I rocked to Pretty Lights on the night of Hallowe’en in the biggest zombie apocalypse on the East Coast.  I infiltrated a secret warehouse party in Allston.  I made it all the way down to Virginia as part of the University Tour, Charlottesville retains it’s legendary status in my mind as do the kids of UVA – you know who you are.  It would be wrong if I were to leave Boston without leaving behind a few mixtapes for the best of them.  There is one thing I haven’t done though, I have yet to cycle in Boston.  Home to an impressively prolific fixie culture, my brother rides fixed gear through the streets of London and makes it look good, I want to feel what he feels, but that will have to wait until next time.  I did however sate for the first time ever, my appetite for driving the city at night.  With the right surroundings it transports you, but with the right music it’s magical stuff.  I do miss the Nantucket Defender, the soft top beach wagon that runs best on salty dreams and sandy nights, but for a city with sharp edges we were in need something a little more punchy.  Not to be outdone by their own track record of killing it, at every opportunity, Jack Wills brought in the Scout to be Boston’s resident Landrover.  A whole twelve months since I last drove her on the 2011 Autumn University Tour, it felt good to be back behind the wheel of my girl.  Admittedly the first few hours back on the city streets were a little sketchy, Comm Ave is no beach, but that didn’t last long.  After all Scout is the fastest in the fleet…

This Autumn I watched the sky change from the streets of Boston.  Before I knew it the nights were dark dark dark, and December was almost upon us, which can only mean one thing.  So I consider my novel time in the city from one more angle, I get to thinking about how all that I’ve driven to achieve so far, is everything that I am doing right now.  Amazing, that I feel I can stake claim to the achievement of some lofty, farfetched ideals, with such casual prowess.  The question at hand is what now? What next? Well now I do it all again, but even better.  I’m in now, this is my life and my story.  I have my friends, my passion and my momentum.

One ticket to Aspen please…

During my time as a Seasonnaire, Jack Wills has consistently placed opportunity after opportunity in my path. Most notably the chance to spend a summer on Nantucket Island. One summer which turned into three, which in turn became something different altogether, and much, much larger. A dear friend once told me, you can wash the salt from your hair, but there is no way you can get the island out of your blood. And I fear she may be right… I’ve taken so much from this island over my three summers, I’ve done a lot of growing up here. It sounds strange, to grow up in a place where people go to escape growing up. In some ways I feel like Peter Pan. And whilst a skeptic may question the motives of a boy in green tights, who sneaks into bedrooms at night and openly encourages the use of fairy dust. Nobody can deny that he lives a charmed life. Because he of course has captured dreams without sleeping, youth with no elixir, and play with no price. He exists exactly where he wants to be, and nobody can tell him otherwise. Not even Wendy.

Something else Jack Wills has given me is people. I now ‘know people’. I have met, followed, led and ran with some of the most vibrant young upstarts that this life has to offer. I can’t say I’ve enjoyed the company of every single person I’ve come across, but I’ve damn well made the most of the ones I haven’t. The best part is that every now and again, sometimes few and far between, you come across someone that just clicks. Well, I’ve got two.

Dear William & Amber,

There is no question that we have developed our own unique brand of questionable dynamics as a trio this summer, but that’s just it. With a ‘total hours of separation’ count that you could sum up on one hand, throughout a whole summer, we are absolutely three. I could not have foreseen being placed in a close proximity environment with two characters farther in interest but closer in ideals. We are literally the most distant ends of the spectrum to one another, but with common ground right in front of us, on which we danced hard, all summer long. I have now lived with the sassiest bitch and the grumpiest lad. King William, you give the warmest hugs, you have lushest locks, cook the meanest banquets and purvey your own brand of honesty that strikes a relentlessly unforgivable balance between humour and clarity that I will miss without end. Princess Amber, you do have the bluest eyes, you do have the tannest skin and you do have the brightest smile. You captured the heart of every American boy on the island and then left them in the dust on the dancefloor, you will always be my partner, you will always be the Princess and you absolutely will not stop until you get to the beach. I will miss you so. This is not my first summer, but this has definitely been the best. I am honoured that I got to be the one to show you my Nantucket, and delighted that you both pushed me forward in ways that were just for me. I have learned so much from being around both of you that I am walking away with a new stance, I walk taller now. 22 is supposed to be the age when a young man figures out exactly who he wants to be, I may not be able to wax seal it quite that eloquently, but my puzzle pieces have definitely started lining up. I don’t know where I’m going, but I damn well know how to get there. Thank you for my best summer yet – I love you both. You fucking virgins.

Leaving the island behind is a scary prospect, I haven’t worn shoes for four months and I don’t know if I’m ready to see a traffic light again. Truthfully there is no place I have found that I would rather be for summer than right here. Apparently the world is bigger than Nantucket, but I know for a fact that there is nowhere quite like it, because life is different here – island time is potent. Now that my days have numbers I get this fuzzy feeling every time I set foot on the beach. I think of every single person that has played a part in shaping the experience of my summers, and I wonder if I will ever find another place with as much virtue to be found, as this island has to look for. I admit that thinking about the big question mark makes me nervous, but I swore by the unknown back when I left for my big adventure. One thing is for sure, it’s the people that make this place beautiful…

I have seen sides of this island that long time lovers of Nantucket might only ever wish to taste, and I still haven’t been to the Whaling Museum. I never dreamed there would be so much adventure to be found on such a small spit of sand, but it’s the unseen moments of summer that become the defining lines of experience, enjoy the pictures because they don’t even come close. The moments that matter are the ones you share, when every possible variable all around you lines up just right, and for a short while they all sing in unison to let you know that you are here, now, and no one can ever change that.

Thank you Nantucket, I will never forget.

Every winter I gain so much momentum, led by freedom and fed by passion, all along the mountain tops.  But stepping off the ferry the island comes rushing back with the smell of sea air.   My summer months were always about living Island Time, about slowing down and feeling the breeze.  Every summer I would live to give in to the tide, to bank more beach time than your next man and absorb every piece of depth the island had to offer.  Naturally each year my perspective has shifted a little.  Gradually sinking into the island, looking past the postcards and trinkets that enchant the masses, and seeing and breathing the real island, with the real gems.  Gems that you don’t talk about, out of respect for their privacy.  By it’s very definition, it’s the secrecy that makes a secret special.  Perspective is a unique concept by essence, and mine is no exception.  Island time is no longer about sleeping in and being late.  Island time is about never stopping, squeezing every ounce of gold out of the afternoon light, and every gram of silver from the stars.   Flying high, seeking adventure at every turn, and sleeping on the beach when you’re done.  Jack Wills Seasonnaires

I’ve grown so much during my time spent on Nantucket.  It’s a bizarre environment.  You can get up to more mischeif in one summer than you would in a full year anywhere else, in whatever form that entails.  Summer on the island is like an experience multiplier, life times 3.  Nowadays there is perpetually something happening somewhere, the only question any more is which path will be the most fun?  And just how much can you get away with…

Like in any environment there are so many factions that exist on the island, the way they all fit together and spill over is fascinating.  I’d love to look over a social/political map of the island because you’d best believe it would be intricate.  But no matter where you come from, or from which angle you look, the real magic of the island is in the youth.  The generation of college kids that arrives every year to spend the best summer of their lives rolling in the sand, exploring the secrets, falling in love and getting into trouble with their friends.  Nobody can put a measure on the richness and value in the experience alone, of living out every day amongst the boys and girls of summer who come just as sure as they go.   Such a big part of the glow is the mortality of the experience itself.  All good things come to an end, so live now and think later.  If you can capture even a slice of this you will see what Nantucket is really about.  If only for a split second, you will know the island.

A playground the likes of which most people will never see, or even dream of.  There are rules of course, and there are restrictions, some stringent and some less so but they all exist for a reason; without them the island would have lost it’s charm long ago.  Now I’m staring straight down the barrel of my third summer. As with any rulebook some rules were made to be bent, and others made to be broken.  Half the fun is not getting caught…

I love this island.

Once again I reached the end of winter.  And once again it was the best winter of my life.  Charmed is the man who claims the best 6 months of his life, twice a year.  Charmed is how I feel.  Once more the snow was melting, and once more seasonal lovers were left to cry over their smashed prospects as adventurers laced up their boots and zipped up their bags in favour of looking to the horizon.  This winter was like no other for me, personally, professionally and passionately.  It seems the deeper into snowboarding I go, the more I fall in love.

This winter I feel like I came of age as an instructor.  I discovered how to lead my students through discovery and progression in a way that focussed entirely on squeezing every ounce of experience from it all, every step of the way.  I got fired for the first time in my life.  But in the same winter I truly found the way I love to teach, and the way I love to lead.  By playing with the mountains.

This winter I unlocked my freestyle.  For the longest time I’ve had the foundations to fly in any direction, but let’s face it, freestyle is it.  I found my true riding partner, his name is Ricky Ryan, he is my best friend in Aspen and I owe him some fire. Like Daedalus, he taught me how to fly.  This winter I got my first 540, and my second 540, Frontside and Switch Frontside. I was going for all 4  5s but I caught an injury right at the beginning of park season which definitely put a stop in my progression.  Dislocated a rib on my lower left side, far from pleasant and an injury that is apparently not supposed to be possible.  Logical then, that the only other person I know to have suffered such an ailment is my father, when I am very much my father’s son.  To put it bluntly, I fell out of the sky.

This winter was the first time I’d ever returned to a ski town during my 4 years in North America.  I was able to build limitlessly on the foundations that I had put down the year before.  I saw sides of Aspen and Snowmass that I could only dream of before, I followed every trail, scent, rumour and rope until my appetite was sated of adventure and mischief.  I got to spend a whole nother winter working with one of the most inspiring, and forward thinking organizations I am so lucky to be a part of, the Aspen Snowmass Ski & Ride School.  I got to spend another winter shooting and playing with the amazing, versatile and dynamic Content Crew, trumped in their collective awesomeness only by the spectacular individual prowess of the characters that make it a collective.  You know who you are.  In short, for a whole 6 months I got to blend the lines of passion and professionalism with some of the coolest people I will ever meet.  For the first time since I left home, I found home.  And with it comes the very first taste of my nomadic lifestyle finally reaching an anchor.   My heart is in the mountains.

This life I have come to lead in pursuit of experience, inspired by heroes and dedicated to forward movement.  Spurred into extraordinary situations by the insatiable allure of unique experience and the richness of living young and wild, and free.

My last month in Aspen was spent riding slush pools and monster trucking turf patches, in tank tops and sunscreen with my very best friends.  But as with all good things, eventually winter must always come to an end.  The snow melts and the rivers swell.  We are left with no choice but to turn our faces to the wind and look for the sun.  I love winter with all my heart but but I also love being a Seasonnaire, and the flowers I can see sprouting in the pavements mean that something special is on the horizon.  Summer is coming, and I feel the pull of the tide.  Sometimes the best feeling in the world is just giving in.  Aspen to Nantucket.  See you on the island…

But I didn’t just go.  I went with three of my favorite snow kids from Aspen ever.  Cali Babe, Vegan Babe and Mega Babe.

So poor were our efforts to prepare, and so stacked against us the odds of the car even making it.  That I believe somewhere along the road in Aspen, all of us cast out our fears of time, money and concealment. If this were any other trio of girls I would have been locked in a flaming pillar of regret from the very beginning.  But it wasn’t .  The moment we stepped in the car we had passed the point of no return.  From then on it was about making it to California, nothing else mattered.  Before we knew it we were blasting through the Nevada desert on a babestation road trip where everything and everyone we touched worked out in our favour.  Without any of us even noticing, the trip went from “fuckwherearemykeys” to “catchusifyoucan”. How could we not make it?

With three babes at my side we barreled across state lines destroying vegas, hollywood and about a thousand of those windmills that turn wind into electricity.  Instead of wind into flour.  Whoever bridged that gap was a legend.  Without even trying we had hookups everywhere we turned, we slept comfortably and drove with feet up.  We turned great friends into a 4 person adventure unit and we absolutely would not stop until we reached the West Coast.

We finally reached the gates to Coachella at sundown on Thursday night.  Resourcefully, the babes had stocked up on Four Loko “babejuice” in Vegas and cracked it for the ‘roll-in period’ of pre festival STOKE(D)CHELLA.  That night we setup our little crib away from the mountains.  We had the smallest, most gnarly looking little tent on the whole block.  147th and Park Ave.  But we had an air mattress power pad that reached wall to wall, and the best babes on the block all in one place. Jealous?

I honestly swear I went into that festival with such noble aspirations, to capture everything and produce one megalodon piece of content on the flip side.  But I woke up that morning to 106degree heat, in a lush green polo field in the middle of the californian desert, surrounded by palm trees, with jurassic park hills and blazing blue sky for miles.  That kind of changed everything.  So I took a deep breath and I laid down my camera.  Coachella, after all, was my reward to me after the best winter of my life.  A bizarre feeling, setting aside my content driven aspirations in favour of whole hearted absorption of experience alone.  Full circle.  I was 22, in California, and it felt great, to hold something back for my eyes only.

Being in the mix at Coachella was like no experience before it.  Festival people are some of my favorite people in the whole world, they are free and they fall in love every day.  I saw so much beautiful music and went from vibing to The Weeknd and Frank Ocean, laying under the stars to Explosions In The Sky, and surviving a full-scale galactic space war with Swedish House Mafia.  Except instead of death there was dance, and instead of lasers there were more lasers.  And then I saw Dre.

I would delight in showng you everything we did.  But I take even more pleasure in holding back.  If any of you ever actually find me, I promise I’ll tell you all about it…

Somewhere along the way I got involved with the party starters of Aspen.  I had heard folklore myth and legend of a party last winter called Whomp In The Water, a conception that came out of nowhere and snowballed into one of the biggest parties of the year without question.  As it happened, the party itself was the brainchild of my now good friend James Fogerty (party starter).  He explained the brief premise of the event, at which point there was no looking back.  The Jack Wills Seasonnaires were in, and ready to take the party to the next level.  It took 600 pairs of party pants being overnighted from Boston, but snail mail prevailed.  7 DJs, 8 kegs, a bunch of lasers and a huge indoor pool.  Sounds like our kind of party.

I was particularly excited about this project because it provided the perfect opportunity to try out my brand new camera rig.  Inspired my friend the adventurer Max Rantz McDonald, I have the GoPro Hero 2 system, monopod and LED video lamp setup, rock solid and ready for the most action packed versatile situations.  Just how I like it.  Miraculously nobody got electrocuted by my 160 LED personal floodlight, but I’ll be damned if I wasn’t going to get those underwater shots.  Essential.  Doubly excited because this was also my first venture into editing using Final Cut Pro X.  The learning process was a blast and I actually chose to stay in the booth and work on the project over my 22nd birthday, that’s how great an experience it was/how sad I am.  Of course I wasn’t really alone, thanks to numerous online guides and limitless inspiration from trailblazers like Abe Kislevitz and my friends over at Orillo Productions, the project came out just fine.  And just like that, IAMRED was born.

Last year (2010/11) was my Rookie Year as part of Snowmass Ski & Ride School.  Amongst various hideous and unspeakable hazing routines, including semi-regular death threats from Brockman – which continue to this day, I took on the responsibility of throwing the biggest Rookie Party ski school had ever seen.  Of course I wasn’t alone in my endeavors, I had a wonderful team of a select few whom I will thank again and for eternity, because we fucking killed it.  So year 2 rolls around, a new rookie team joins the school and once again the skiers try to run the party.  Haha.  Anyway the responsibility was wrestled back to where it belongs until once more the snowboarders held the mantle, the gauntlet has been thrown down, good luck rookies.

At long deliberation the theme was chosen, this was to be a circus party.  Which I interpret to mean; dress as whatever you want that’s awesome.  Especially clowns.  One day I will throw a clown party, for just clowns, all clowns.  Seeing the opportunity and grasping the prompting of any excuse, I called for a Facepaint Pre-Party at the Sanctuary, as usual Freestone Philips loves it and accepted the plan.  Honestly the Rookie Party was always going to be awesome, but I was suitably more excited over the prospect of a dedicated Facepaint Pre-Party, you would be too if you knew my artist.  From that point on we set about gathering our core Snowboard School crew and buying a shit load of face paint in preparation for some arts and crafts, it was time to get messy.

The crew amassed at 7pm and the stellar vibes of the Sanctuary were elevated to become a technicolour arts and crafts dreamfest.  It is at this point I will happily disclose that I may have schemed up the entire concept just to have my face painted by one person, the illustrious Kaylie Thompson.  It is exactly as I said before, if only you knew my artist.  We arrived at the google image station and began to peruse pandemonius possibilities, I was mostly focussing on finding the mask that would bank me the most quality time in the studio chair…  Or maybe it’s because I’d just watched Teen Wolf .  ”There! That one.” I said.  ”Red, that’s clearly not a lion…” “I don’t care, I want it.” Yep, it worked.  I was all ready to get lost in there until Ricky Ryan’s rendition of ‘The Spirit of Disco’ shocked me out of trance.  Literally, he was terrifying.

With the facepaint party complete it was time for a photoshoot.  Once again we were joined by the beautiful and effervescent patron saint of Sokold, Kelly Simmons, for an all out neon disco face paint bonanza.  Profile pictures all round.  At the upper limits of coherence we set off down the valley road from Sanctuary and safety to darkness, danger and party time.

Mini adventures were had all the way to the door, as all mini adventures should.  One last picture on the snow and then into the circus.  And what a fine circus it was! All the rest of the story is better described by the pictures that document.  But let it be known that face paint is one of my favorite things on this earth.  What other substance or medium could turn an entire conference filled with ‘professionals’ into a raucous literal circus filled freaks and geeks unafraid to sing nor sin.  Facepaint is the mask behind which to hide your greatest inhibitions, and to others, the window to reveal a true piece of self.  Rawr

I never dreamed of being an astronaut.  I’ve always loved video games and the concept of flying spaceships is certainly appealing, I’m good at it too.  But that doesn’t change the fact that when I was a child I never dreamed of being an astronaut, a doctor, a milkman, or any other public service role – high octane or not.  It’s not that I feel any mild level of contempt for the human race, or anything of the sort, I’m just not cut out to serve the people.  I might have been a knight back in the day, but that’s probably my limit.  I like to choose my own path, I enjoy the fact that started out alone and I revel in the knowledge that not many people can do it like I do.  Make no mistake about it, I’m in this for me.  It would stoke me out super hardcore if on this path I managed to inspire people, but ultimately that’s not why I’m here.  Like I said, I never thought I’d set foot on the moon, but the other night I came pretty damn close.

For as long as I have been inside the snowsports industry I have heard folklore about moonlight riding.  It sounds romantic, but this doesn’t necessarily mean riding actual beams of moonlight like the name suggests.  (Although if we were to get technical, technically anything visible underneath a full moon is so because the the very light particles that are constantly bouncing from it, thus meaning that if you can see what you’re riding, theoretically speaking, you are riding ‘moonbeams’ or fragments of them.)  It is said that on the night of a full moon in Colorado, the sky is so clear and the moon so bright that it illuminates all the snow around it, giving almost defiantly perfect visibility.  Back when I was still on my way in, friends of mine would take car laps of Loveland Pass but all I would ever hear were stories, never invites.  This was okay, because I’d rather earn my place in the car than be invited out of sympathy, but rest assured the seed was germinating.

Now I live in Aspen, and I am well and truly in.  It is said, that for the courageous and resilient who can brave the cold, and last the hike, every lunar cycle there is a full moon party at the very top of Buttermilk Mountain.  This was something I had to see.  Now typically I endeavor to ride at the edge of my ability level, and I know my limits so put it this way, hiking was never my strength.  Physically?  Sure, no problem, oh it’s a 14er?  Psh.  But mentally?  How about we just sit down here and take a rest so we can talk about it.  It was clear I was going to need some friendly motivation, and out goes the call.

A staggering number of people opted to stay on the couch, but in truth I wouldn’t rather have spent this adventure with anybody else.  One of my all-time favorite riding partners and Buttermilk Instructor Fred Ables, then the wonderful and deceivingly badass rider Kelly Simmons, also an instructor on Snowmass.  And so we began our ascent, blessed in the early stages by keener hikers who lit the way up the first climb, we were off to such a strong start.  My nose hairs were prickling, frozen inside my face until we really started moving.  At which point your body, which has to account for sub zero temperatures, 8000feet of altitude and excessive strenuous excursion to lug your meaty ass up a steep hill, blasts your body temperature through the roof and all of a sudden being cold is no longer the issue.  Hiking is hot, hot work but when we stopped at our first plateau to look back on a night lit Aspen, everything comes into perspective, you realise just how lucky you are and how some of your friends back home will never see a sight like this.  Ever.

The whole way up the mountain we bumped into hikers faster and slower than our party.  Okay massive lie, we only bumped into hikers faster than our party, and when I say ‘bumped’ I mean they stopped briefly whilst overtaking us to offer words of support.  But when everybody has sacrificed dignity to wear those fucking tennis rackets on their shoes, zooming up the mountain like they’re wearing bloody zig techs, I don’t want your fucking advice.  Every now and again a crew would ski down past us, out of the night flying so fast you would feel the air rush as they passed, then a dog sprinting after them having the time of it’s life.  We consoled ourselves with regular breaks to play in the snow and take pictures, making the most of hiking friends that come and go, one group gave us all fireworks to shoot which warranted a solid 20minute break.  Another brave/poor girl was hiking with two 30racks in her bag, so we took the liberty of lightening her load – 15 mins.  By the time we actually made it to the top it had taken us 3 whole hours, to hike the tamest mountain of the Aspen four.  But who gives a shit?  This was no race.

Every now and again a Snowcat would growl past, huge and lumbering and sail up into the distance.  As we reached the final stretch of the climb, passing the RISK OF DEATH sign into the final wood we could hear the bass coming from the summit party.  At once we began to hear the voices of a party finally in reach and every now and again there would be a burst of light from a firework which would illuminate the whole forest around us.  Up and up we climbed until finally we were victorious.  Met with hugs, excitement, full beers and an epic bonfire, some absolute legend had dragged up a huge festival speaker on a sled so there was music, fire, laughter, and all kinds of else.

The party at the top was a fine selection of the winter kids who knew about it, and had the balls to make the climb.  Seen to be believed, so many stayed up on the mountain until sunrise, but as I have already detailed, I wanted to I ride the moonlight, all the way down.  And perhaps it was because I’d just watched Teen Wolf, but right before I left under the full moon, I met the spirit of the mountain.

Even though those thieving Canadians with their superior bacon are trying to steal the Winter X Games for Whistler, it doesn’t mean the games aren’t every ounce of awesome they were born to be, every single year.  When X Games rolls around you would be wise to clear your schedule and place your life outside Aspen on hold, because your life inside Aspen is about to go into overdrive.  Winter X Games is a honeypot in every sense of the word, it’s like the Olympics, except not gay and plagued by spandex.  Every kid in the whole resort who is worth a damn will have three people staying in their floor, and if they don’t then their floor is probably gross.  I’m almost certain that the entire snowsports contingent of DU and Boulder was staying in the Hunter Creek Apartments for the weekend, which was awesome.  It meant that I could walk in to any of my friend’s apartments at night and join a party, then every morning to a true college scene, it was beautiful.

On my floor were three of my most worthy friends, all snowboard instructors from Vail led by the steezy little Makena Hawley who had shown me such a great host on my trip through for instructor exams last winter.  Upstairs from me was a huge team from DU, the kind who can’t help but transform by nights and who I miraculously knew through the Denver party connects.  I walked in to an empty apartment and the only Whitney Bliss Pool is sitting right there on the couch just staring back at me, I flash back to the Datsik show where I anything short of fell in love with the bohemian with the sky blues and freaky mangled feathers in her hair.  Surprised I was, turning around I was not, here we go X Games.

Events begin to unfold and we wake up after the first night of X Games and start gearing up for the mountain.  Sarah from DU had expressed a strong desire to be guided around Snowmass, there was a little hair flicking involved so I didn’t really take her that seriously.  But before leaving for the mountain I climbed upstairs anyway, if mostly to gloat at the wreckage that I was actually going snowboarding, which is what people do in Aspen.  Baring in mind Sarah was the only one of her whole crew to actually bring her skis, I’m not sure whether this is more testament to her resolve, or her friend’s collective weakness.  Triumphantly throwing open the front door I flood the living room with glorious sunlight, there were bodies everywhere, but nobody even flinched, not a sound, these kids are legit, no joke.  Apart from the guy who wore Sperry’s to X Games and didn’t even pack socks, he was a fucking joke.  No groans, but also no Sarah’s, was she even here? Then I hear a sound from the kitchen, I turned around and beheld a very frail, pale looking Sarah, with hair like Friday and clinging to the kitchen sink for her life.  ”Wow, you look awesome.  I’m going snowboarding now so like maybe see you out there?” was my line, but I did not anticipate the response.  ”No! I’m coming with you, like right now.” Again, there was a little swaying involved so I didn’t really take her seriously.  But sure enough 5 minutes and a miraculous recovery later she was suited and booted, still pale but loading into the back of the pickup with the resolve of a true rider.  To Snowmass, on the double

I am blessed with a job that, considering your typical working environment, leaves a shocking amount of leeway for being grotesquely hungover on the clock.  And it is true that there are few things that work better than getting out on the mountain to shake the hang, that said I was shocked and pleasantly surprised – this girl kills it on skis.  Ladies watch out, she’s got my vote for the BSJiA 2012.  Sarah was good but Makena and I had riding to do.  Being her first day ever riding Snowmass outside of exam conditions, I do at least endeavor to be a good host sometimes.  This was now my home mountain and there was so much to share with one of my all time favorite lady rippers.  So we rode trees, and powder, and more trees, and then we lapped the park all afternoon long.  The girl is a fucking super legit snowboarder, and she looks damn good doing it, which is like so important.

The last side of the honey pot is the unsuppressable music scene.  Typically speaking, who doesn’t want to play Aspen? Exactly, no one.  But over X Games we saw Deadmau5, Steve Aoki, Datsik, Wu-Tang and so much more… And so the rage ensued.