We awoke to a cloudless 17 degree day with haze rising off the San Juan River.  This day had epic possibility. 

I stumbled downstairs to the kitchen on a singular mission: Our French Roast in my cup.   Ski gear in piles, and steaming cups in hand, we sipped and talked about the day ahead.

We packed the car, chatter of big powder all around.  We were headed up to 11,000 feet to ski the gnar.

Boards strapped on, stomach in knots, piles and piles of powder ahead of us.  We pushed off. 

With a smile and sense of exhilaration I looked back and yelled:  Pizza Pie! Pizza Pie! Slow down!

I taught my niece to ski.   

Sip Slowly