We live to get radical.

By josh staab

“I’ve been to every city in Mexico. I came across an unclaimed piece of meat in Baja, turned out to be Rosie. I guessed he picked a knife fight with somebody better. Found one of your passports to Sumatra, I missed you by about a week at Fiji. But, I knew you wouldn’t miss the fifty year storm, Bodhi.” Johnny Utah, Point Break

We arrived around the time the storm was supposed to be moving through with the rumor of sunshine to follow. Instead, we rode two days while sticky little fluffy flakes steadily dropped.

Some old kooky ski dude tried getting lippy with us in a lift line about his ridiculous ski streamers hanging behind his two planks. Tuck those things into your pants next time will you, guy?

“No one asked for your opinion,” he barked as he shuffled off.

No, but you trip someone up with those things and you’ll get more than just an opinion, friend. His wife understood; she held hers in a show of embarrassed admission.

We rode balls-deep, sometimes chest-deep powder – blower powder. The type that lifts after a nice toe to heel, spraying you and hopefully the friend behind you. You hoot a lot. At times you get the “white room” treatment. Sometimes you get the snowman treatment. Sometimes you drop a cliff into soft stuff and forget to heel cut and give the trees a little trim.

We didn’t bring our snorkels. We rode plenty of first chairs. We hung out in a wooden tee-pee. We drank Gold medal winning blue ribbon beer. We philosophized on the topics of Genesis, Craig Kelly, Phil Collins, 747s, Bruce Dickinson, Splitboarding and weiner dogs. Inside jokes were made at our own expense.

It dumped eight feet in Tahoe this weekend, friends. Days like this put it in perspective. They remind you that you’re just a small part of a much bigger picture.

This was the storm some kooky weatherman coined as “the western wallop.” It was no doozy, but it was exactly what we needed.

Go snowboarding, friends.

It’s the key to your success, your salvation or just a great excuse to call in sick.

Run for the hills.

Words: JLS & Oates

Photos: JLS

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