I love getting high.

Now hold on, don’t get all scandalized; I mean that literally. Altitude, mountains, snow…

I’m not sure how it started. I mean, I know when, I was two the first time my parents put me on skis. I wonder what I thought, sliding down a hill with my feet locked on to two planks that separated me from packed, frozen water crystals. All I know is whatever I felt then evolved into a deep passion for breathing in thin air.

From skiing between my dad’s legs with an Edgie Wedgie that kept my tips in the perfect plowing position, to finally pointing those tips down the mountain in parallel form, I’ve always loved the atmosphere. The uniqueness of being able to socialize in the lodge and on the chairlift combined with the solitude of trekking down a backcountry run endears me to the sport. You get the best of both worlds, basically. I cannot equate the feeling I get gliding almost knee deep in powder, surrounded by trees, watching sunlight turn thousands of drifting snowflakes into a shower of glitter.

It isn’t always glamorous. Sometimes you end up with snow in places it does not belong, but I always feel like if you don’t wipeout at least once during the day, you probably have not been trying hard enough.

If you’ve never been skiing (or at least snowboarding), get out there. Now. It’s a completely enveloping mental and physical experience. Even if you don’t fall in love with it like I have, you might discover a new hobby that can keep you occupied for at least one or two weekends a year.

So please, go out and burn as often as you can. It hurts so good.