Feburary 22nd cont: Since I'm experienced with spending hours looking for runaway skis, I was anxious to chase it down. But the line which moments ago seemed like a treat now looked menacing. After flailing down the best part of the run and learning that I'm a horrible one legged powder skier, I found the ski hiding behind a tree. It had caught some air and landed like a spear in the snowpack. I recovered the runaway beast and triumphantly mounted it to my previously crippled feeling foot. The middle part of our descent, which I usually consider to be the crux of the run as it involves the most bushwacking and potential to get lost, was good skiing and quite uneventful.

Look Ma! Only one ski!

Near the bottom, we sped down the porter fork road passing waves of pained looking backcountry travellers. A good distance from the trailhead Slim stopped to pick up a pile of doggie poop that he had bagged earlier on our way up. Gingerly riding with the bulging sack off to his side, he picked up speed and resumed his hurtling pace down hard packed trail. I gave the poop wide berth and let Slim take up the lead.

Once we reached peak speed, Slim's huge split board balked at the firm snow. He went down hard. I'm not sure if he cartwheeled or just slid but his tumble definitely went the distance because there was a long brown streak of dog shit that went on for twenty feet or so. I did my best to avoid the colorful stripes and splattered clumps while keeping an eye on the sky for any nuggets that might still be airborn. At the terminus of the rubble, Slim lay on the ground, frantically checking his body, not for broken parts, but for brown smears and smudges while saying, "Euwe! euwe! euwe!"

I thankfully noted that he was not shit-faced, but was still concerned about giving a stinky, poopie coated passenger a ride home in the freak-mobile. Luckily, we discovered that he had escaped the carnage mostly unscathed, and had a hearty laugh before continuing down, now with a half full bag of shit.

They say lightning never strikes the same place twice. That's why I could hardly believe my eyes when once again Slim's board seemed to just grab an edge and throw him off the trail onto the ground, dangerously close to a patch of trees and flowing creek. I swerved to avoid the new, slightly shorter but not less impressive brown streak and to help inspect for defiled body parts. Then we had good laugh at the fact that a dreaded fecal smearing had once again been luckily avoided.

To complete our responsible dog owner gesture without relapse, I insisted on taking the bag the rest of the way. With little astonishment we discovered that the shattered and torn shit bag was now completely empty.

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