This song started forming in my head during the climb back up to the Fowler Hilliard hut near Camp Hale in Colorado. It was one of those rare and miraculous visitations by the muse -- by the time I reached the hut the song was all written. We had gone out across the valley to ski some untracked slopes we could see from the hut, the easiest way there being a road used by snowmobiles. As we trudged up to the slopes the sleds flew by us towing skiers headed for the same slopes we had spent all morning approaching. At the bottom of the run, the road with its massive walls of snow felt like an ez bake oven choking in fumes and noise from the roaring sleds. We instantly decided to leave the road entering the cool, quiet forest and snaked our way back up in quite reverie, taking in the incredible views. Just get off the beaten tracks and on your own feet, skis, peddles, paddles.
