Bie, Tom
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There is a peculiar, primitive joy to free-heeling the bottomless. You genuflect to the grace of fallen snow and once you’ve been properly submersed, everything else feels like swimming with your clothes on. It’s a dance, your partner is Mother Nature, and she’s the hottest babe in town.

Crystals detonating overhead, you simply become your skis, the snow offering all the resistance of campfire smoke as you blaze your way to glory, mouth open, coughing out each turn.

To plunge deep on pins is to immerse yourself in ecstasy, handing your soul over to the full power of hedonism. With a smiling face covered in pride and powder, a good telemarker can really become, in certain glorious, turn-linking moments, as beautiful as the surrounding snow. The ball of your foot becomes center of the universe and as you drop alternating knees into the galaxy of goodness, weightlessness finds you. And finds you pleased.

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