Slicing the country

For days and days, the clouds have been so low we have been barely able to see out of the window- endless levels of snow continue to saturate the inclines of our surroundings culminating in a Smith, too timid to take on any more treacherous efforts of exploring these fierce formations that very much resemble the same levels of details as a sheet of plain A4 paper. An alternative had to be found, as Dan and I were feeling twinges of frustration as days were evolving into revolving round a batch of very demanding clients, and with no outlet of an allowance of descending those fine slopes [which is why, let us remember, the only reason why I gave up painting pictures of bicycles for extracting people's faeces from toilets] we started feeling a little blue. B U T W A I T ! ! What were we thinking?! There's 60km of p e r f e c t cross country runs, just a snifter from our digs : deep down below the angry climate of the peaks, these are positioned safely in the valley + wind their way through the trees with undulating excitement. The moody woman in the hire shop miraculously wouldn't take any money from me [another drastic perk of the job] and without a moment's hesitation, presented me with the sweetest set of light as anything cross countriers- intimidatingly almost double the size of me! [exaggerating for effect, they're just a bit longer than normal skis] Haphazardly I set out to the tracks, not really knowing where they started or finished, I thought I'd just stumble through a few fields of deep snow before strapping up to these fine new beasts. Fine fine tunes filling my ears, chosen for their ultimate atmospheric enhancing effect- like Portico Quartet + Kraftwerk, it was time to get to work. After at least twenty minutes of fidgeting around with these peculiar bindings, I was finally ready to embark- the snow now pouring down as if it were a heavy rain shower, and if it wasn't for my clumsy falls + regular jerky changes of direction, I might've been completely disguised within a few alpine moments. If only I'd bumped into a wild moose who could've taken a photo of this disorientated Brit; cluelessly completely disorientated but elated and empowered to be venturing on yet another virgin experience. But when I didn't find a moose, I thought I'd take a self-indulgent snap of my bright red face, so happy in that brilliant dusking afternoon.