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Hundred Days



The Mountain Pulse Jackson Hole

In the quiet seclusion of Moran Woods, turns were effortless and sublime. Not wanting to eat up the powder too quickly, I forced myself to stop mid-run. Fast falling snow intensified the scene’s silence, and I passed into a fantasy world where I expected a fawn to creep out from behind the line of conifers. Allowing my imagination to further ferment, I decided that the day deserved an apparition more epic than a fawn. Perhaps a majestic centaur trotting out with a gorgeous nude blond riding him bareback would be more appropriate. Yes, far more appropriate.

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