There was a lot of snow.
My brother, Kirk, threw snow into the air.
Then I threw snow into the air.
We found a jump on a steep run called “The Face.”
So we jumped off of it.
Kirk went first because he’s in training to be a fighter pilot and people who are training to be a fighter pilot tend to go off jumps before people who have very serious opinions about salsa, i.e. me.
After Kirk proved the jump to be not life threatening, I hit it.
Kirk did a back flip which a stranger deemed to be “fucking dope.”
I hit the jump with a lot less of what we’ll call “pizazz.”
We made another jump from some snow piled on a rock and hit that en route to the previously mentioned jump.
Then my brother jumped into a tree.
I again chose the less pizazz route. In this case “pizazz” could also mean “tree.”
Later, on the same jump, Kirk landed in a rut and hit chin hit his knee.
Part of his back tooth was not to thrilled with this and decided to no longer participate in the whole being part of a tooth thing.
We called it quits shortly after that.
At the car I discovered that my mustache had been growing ice all day.
Then I ate a sandwich.
Then the sky was pretty.
It was a great day.