We just got back from Vermont, where Joyce and I took a couple days off from work to ski.
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The view from the lodge was amazing, but the batteries on my digital camera crapped out just then, so you'll have to take my word for it. Or you can go there yourself and see. Either way, I don't care. Just so you know.
The next day, a little sore from our woeful lack of physical fitness, we hobbled over to Pico Mountain. It wasn't much warmer, but we got a couple inches of snow the previous night so we enjoyed a bit of powder skiing. Pico has some great steep, flat runs, where you can really get the wind roaring in your ears. If your ears weren't completely covered, that is. Because mine were. But I knew the wind WOULD have been roaring, if I could hear it.
We're home now, and after two days of wicked awesome skiing we both have some extremely sore leg muscles. A little while ago I was sitting here in the den and was able to determine that Joyce was walking down the stairs, because I could here her going, "Ow...ow...ow...ow...ow..." etc. I'm similarly afflicted, but a bit of scotch to wash down my Advils, and I'm feeling better.
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Because, you know, we might be snowed in.
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