Back Country Skiing with Fuller, Bountiful Ridge, December 28, 2021

Fuller in his element, ‘quit’ is not in his vocabulary. Why do I always have to be the responsible one?

It’s always a treat skiing with Fuller, especially when I’ve been out of commission for four weeks and still not feeling great. He’s 62, retired (he’s a $$$ genius) and drawing social security, and he reminded me of all that about 50 times today when I was struggling to keep up. When I finally showed some irritation he admitted it was payback for all the years of reversed roles, not that I am a $$$ genius, rather, I was usually the one pushing the pace. He mentioned biking this fall when I’d continually accelerate and drop him whenever we hit a hill. I had no idea, I’m slow but still like to push the pace. But that’s all bull-shit. Fuller never quits. He may start out at a moderate pace and I’m dropping him, but eight hours into the day and I’m crying when he’s only half done. I’ve learned from Fuller that short bursts mean nothing compared to long-term endurance. Best fitness lesson I’ve received is watching Fuller pace smartly, rewarded with  long days in the mountains.   

Exactly 24-inches at Rudy’s Flat (7,156 ft).

Still weedy headed toward Bountiful ridge, one-third the way to the ridge-crest above Rudy’s (7,500 ft). 

Skinning up the Rectangle Divide (8,200 ft), almost to the top. 

My skis have no rise, kept tripping on them. What ever happened to the real ski tips of 1978?

Rectangle Peak (8,293 ft). 

Cold day, ranged between 15 and 19 degrees Fahrenheit.

Good snow but still weedy cover in lower Mark’s Ghost.

The sun tried but could never quite break free.

Fuller breaking trail up the Crescent/Ghost divide.

I’m always intrigued with dead trees. Genetics from my Dad? Or do I just identify with old, dead things? Weird.

Three dead old trees under a frosty sun, one on fire (not quite yet dead), two going nowhere, but all three full of wisdom. Me? I’m the simple, follower, taking photos.  

Did I say Fuller never quits?

Beautiful dead trees . . . .

 . . . and then there’s this. Why? Fucking dip-shits everywhere. Trash begets more trash, and trash (the fucking dip-shits) create more trash. In a year this meadow will look like the Bountiful City Landfill. Ski Bountiful Dump! The skiing may stink, but at least the approach is short.