One word: buttery. Buttery snow, buttery turns, buttery smiles spreading on faces. The snow, sparkling like a seven year old girls' glitter; the sun had peaked through the billowing clouds. Virgin snow everywhere. Heading off P-dog at Snowbird, traversing to Baldy, anxious high-pitched noises escaped into the air. "Send it!" Pushing off, ski's easily cut through the snow like butter (there is that word again). Trees tight on both sides, ski's have to stay straight. One trees' branches stick out further, they graze noisily but harmlessly against the coat. Out of nowhere, ground disappears, briefly, a cloud of snow erupts in the air after the unexpected landing, powdering like make-up from head to toe. Return of the buttery smile. Tree run after fresh tree run. Disturbed only by shouts of friends and the beat from ipod buds, pumping the adrenaline even harder, pushing you even harder.

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