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 to ski untracked slopes we could see across the valley from the hut. The easiest way to get there was on a road used by snowmobiles. As we trudged up the road the sleds flew by us towing skiers headed for the same slopes we’d spent all morning approaching. At the bottom of the run, the road with its massive walls of snow felt like an EZ bake oven, choked with fumes and noise from the roaring sleds. So we left the road and cut our own trail entering the cool, quiet forest as we snaked our way back up in silent reverie, taking in the incredible views. Just get off the beaten tracks and on your own feet, skis, peddles, paddles.
