You’d think that one night spent playing “Dodge the Suicidal Mule Deer” on a pitch black Colorado state road would have lastingly quenched my thirst for that sort of adventure. Well, it didn’t. In the wee hours of this glorious morning, I got on my Luke Skywalker ish and swerved around a presumably brand-new herd of deer en route to Wolf Creek Ski Area, just outside of Pagosa Springs. I beat the sun there, but just barely.

Let’s back up though. The most interesting part of this story—in my estimation—is the shenanigans that led up to this latest impulsive, ill advised road trip.

I climbed into bed around say 11:30. I was feeling a bit off, a not altogether uncommon feeling for yours truly, but it just didn’t subside. I guess it’s fair to say that it all started with bedbugs. Yea… So, I get these bizarre itching fits on the back of my neck. It’s a definite histamine reaction/allergy thing. Those that know me, will attest to my being allergic to goddamn near everything; even cold weather– cruelly enough. So this itching thing has been happening lately either while I’m in bed, or shortly after getting out of it. The really weird thing about this is that I had the EXACT same experience when I lived in Taos a handful of years ago. My mom thought it was a “nerve” thing. I thought maybe it was the detergent, or the the utter lack of humidity in Taos. Well, I started to obsess a bit. For the life of me, I can’t remember why I finally wikipedia’ed bedbugs, but I’ll be damned if the article didn’t sum up my symptoms. What I didn’t know before this informative little read was that bedbugs are quite possibly the most creepy, parasitic, and malevolent things in the history of the universe. Did you know that the male bedbug literally impales the female bedbug with his penis in order to procreate? Any creature that goes about baby-makin’ in such a fashion is officially a Badguy. Anyway, I’m lying in bed, dreading the forthcoming bedbug march directly to my exposed flesh, watching Facebook friends turn from green dots to grey ones, occasionally glancing at my quiet and dark cellphone, and I knew that I had to get the fuck out of there, and pronto. Somehow 11:30 turned into 3am, and some-other-how I was pulling my ski pants on. I went from being exhausted physically, to feeling like I just drank a pot of coffee in roughly 4 seconds. Before I knew what I was doing, I was loading my car with ski gear. By 4am, I was at a gas station glancing at my sloppily scribbled directions to Pagosa Springs. By 4:30, I was blaring Animal Collective’s “Brother Sport” and crushing a sugar-free Redbull can while singing along at full volume.

At some point in that crazy, surreal car ride, I realized that I wasn’t just going skiing. Chalk it up to a psychotic break, a manic episode, or to far too much caffeine on an empty stomach, but I was certain at that moment that I was embarking on a crucially important journey for the sake of all mankind. I know that sounds grandiose, but I swear my intentions were pure, and I was going about this task as humbly as possible. It occurred to me in that moment of what could only be accurately described as out and out madness, that I was completely free—just for that moment. I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude. If you’re reading this and you know me personally, I probably thought of you. I thought of everyone who’s completely tied to a job, a relationship, a home, a pet, a “life.” I thought of everyone who never in a million years could jump up out of bed and say, “Fuck it. I’m going skiing.” I felt like a hobo must feel when he hops his first train…before his liver quits and he freezes to death, I mean. Dust in the wind, son. Catch me if you can. As the sky began to lighten, the deer began to thin, and other headlights began to appear, the veil of nuttiness parted a bit and all of a sudden, I was just going skiing again.

I completely accidentally ended up in the very same diner I had eaten at with my parents and my then girlfriend almost exactly three years prior. I felt like I was on rails, like an amusement park ride. I ordered the same thing. I think it tasted the same.

There’s not much to say about the skiing itself. Wolf Creek gets a shit-ton of snow, it’s affectionately referred to as The Catcher’s Mitt. After a substantial early season storm last week, a few solid days of sun and temps in the upper 50’s rendered what must have seemed like such a promising beginning to the season completely moot. From the chairlift (I got first chair!! And second…on my second run…) the runs looked like cookies ‘n’ cream ice cream on account of the maddeningly even distribution of exposed rock. I knew within three “turns” (read: poorly sliding my tails around while grimacing in anticipation of my knee exploding) that it was a wash, and that the best part of my day had already happened.

Yup, there’s a bit of white stuff up there.

I decided then that I would continue on. I was headed for Breckenridge by noon. I was sleeping on the side of the road by 12:30 after almost falling asleep at the wheel. By 5pm, I was in Target buying pants and a shirt as I neglected to bring anything besides ski gear with me. I don’t ever want to go home.

I might go to Keystone tomorrow. I might drive to Fort Collins to install an electrical outlet for one of my favorite people on this planet. I might drive to my own idea of paradise: Portland, Oregon.

Whatever I do, it’ll be exactly what I feel like doing. I think you should do the same. What’s Warren Miller say…. “If not now, you’ll be one year older when you finally do.”