A hazy vertigo.

Ever been into the mountains on a really cold day when it's snowing, and you think that the conditions are going to fantastic to dig your skis into some fresh snow? That preliminary giddy, childish excitement on the car ride up is pretty standard for the course; and the first jolting blow to the back of your legs by the ski-lift is sure to have you "whooing" if the jackknife turns up the mountain weren't enough, but it's the look down from the beginning of your first run that really does it.

That is if, and only if you can see past the tips of your own skis. A certain northern Spanish ski mountain called Valdezcaray apparently has fame for terrible fog and helacious winds, but who wants to hear that hubbub on a snowy day? Not me, and that first look down was worse than an 80 degree drop-off of a triple black diamond for an amateur because I couldn't tell where the run went, began, ended, or even looked like.

What a terrible concept: to go down a mountain blindly on slick carbon fiber strips, and know that it's full of others doing the same thing. That was one of the most insane feelings ever, looking for shadows of snow blowers as guides, and all the while letting your body react to the unknown grade and turns of your path. Only the fog was reliable. It was as if no one really existed until the lift at the bottom where the blurry shadows became shapes with faces.

The only time that I fell was definitely one for the ridiculous books; not knowing if I was going downhill or up, I found myself tilting backwards until falling and realizing that I was standing sideways on the slope and not moving at all. What an absurd and discombobulating experience.

Oh yea, then we ran our car into a ditch, sitting at a 45 degree angle with snow up to the door handle for 20 minutes until a truck pulled up and 7 Basque men jumped out of it like clowns to pull the car out of the snow and then disappear down the mountain before we could get into the car.

Shazam