Ski to Kill

I think we're gonna need a helmet.

Day Two on the mountain found me trying to keep up with part of the Ocho crew, including the Philippine-born, Tennessee-raised, army-trained sonofabitch who's been watching my back for the past week. He's hooked me up with a job interview, ski poles, down-home dinners, and a whole lot of encouragement. He describes Crested Butte as a town of world class nobodies, and I'm here to you he's one of them. Laddies and gentlemen, I give you Zi:

I can't say I've ever seen anyone move that fast across snow. Just trying to keep up with him was enough to put the fear of God in me. He rides with a motocross helmet and body armor, so the least I can do is put a shell around my green melon. This decision seemed in line with sentiments overheard waiting for the lift:
Ski fast, learn or crash.
It's nice to be surrounded by people who all share a drive to excel at the same thing. So much of the language around here is based on getting some, going huge, or doing the stupidest fucking thing anybody's done all week. When it snows, it's ripping. I'll always love the sense of community in Davis, but the focused energy around having fun on the mountain is invigorating and creates a unified social emphasis on play over work. And there was much rejoicing.