Jumper Shaun Raskin sent us this essay about a ski adventure she had last spring. As the snow falls again, here in Salt Lake City, we are all dreaming about the resorts opening up and a pristine, powder-packed backcountry.

My alarm went off at 6 a.m., but I was already wide awake. I had been up since 3 a.m. with that excited, heart racing, tossing and turning that usually only arrives the evening before the first big snow of the season, however this year it was due to the eve of finally hiking and possibly skiing one of the peaks I have had on my radar for four years.

As I lay there in bed trying to stay as still as possible, occasional trying to count sheep (but they inevitably turned into something ski related) all I could think about was hiking Utah's Mt. Timpinogos. Just the thought of getting to hike to the top with my skis and boots on my pack was enough to get the hart racing, not to mention letting my mind wonder to the possibility of getting to put on my skis and actually make a few turns on the snow field. No, that thought was just too much and would send my feet twitching and my mind wondering if I should just get out of bed now.

But, I decided to stay in bed, knowing that I would need the last three hours of horizontal darkness, even if they were spent wide awake. Eventually, I did fall asleep until the alarm went off at 6 a.m. and I was finally allowed to start the day I had been hoping for since I moved to Utah. I jumped out of bed, grabbed a cup of joe and checked the weather one last time. Then I fed Merl, the dog, a big heaping helping of his food, knowing that even though he didn't know it, he was going to need every bit of kibble. After which, I grabbed everything that I had packed the night before, jumped in the truck, picked up Whitney and then we were off.

We arrived at the trail head at 8:15 a.m. There were only two other cars in the lot, which was quite surprising seeing as Timp is one of the most popular hikes in the state. All we could think was that it was due to the fact that it was a Sunday and we were in Utah.

We got our gear together, strapping skis and boots to the outside of our packs, while Merl, so over wrought with puppy excitement, used the lot as a Formula One race track. We threw on our packs and before we knew it Whitney, Merl, and I hit the falls and then it was as if we blinked and there we were approaching the snow line. We were making great time. Merl was doing great on his first big hike and Whitney was mitigating  hot spots on her feet very nicely, and I... well, I was busy taking more pictures than a Park City tourist.

Everything was going bizarrely smooth for accident-prone girls like Whitney and myself, we just knew something had to happen. And just as Whitney uttered the words, "Last time I just pranced over this section." BOOM!!! She slammed down hard on the boulder behind and let out a horrific scream. When I turned around, there she was, white as a ghost  holding her ankle. After a few minutes of silence she decided that the only way to figure out if we should go on or turn around was for her to just keep hiking up. So on we went.... We slipped and slid our way up through the glazed-over snow pack, kicked in steps where the ice gave way to recrystallized snow, and post holed through the deeper snow pack. Suddenly it became perfectly clear why there were only two other cars in the lot.

As we reached the hanging meadow it became obvious that there was going to be plenty of snow to ski and that my decision to  leave the skins at home was going to be brutally paid for by every step of trail I broke. Inevitably we made it to the lake and snow field where Whitney and I decided to take a much deserved lunch break. It was 1:30 p.m. The snow had been basking in the sunlight for the past few hours, warming from its icy evening temps. Whit and I sat down among the juvenile pines, I opened my can of smoked oysers and bag of trail mix, and we soaked in the rays while scoping out the boot pack up the snow field.

After eating enough oysters to ensure nausea for the rest of the hike, we decide it was time to capitalize on the sunny slopes and get skiing. We finished the hike, threw on our skis, and started our way down the hill. After skiing four pitches down the peak--about 1,000 verticle feet of velvety smooth, supreme spring-like snow --we hit the trail and it was time to hike our way back down. As Whitney , Merl, and I limped, moseyed, and swaggered our way down the mountain, I couldn't help but fearing I was still in bed and this was all just a dream.