The old me would be indignant. I’m at an elevation of 11,000 feet, skittering across a massive bulletproof slate of frozen snow, my ski edges, knees and best-laid plans surrendering together. Twenty years ago, I’d be cursing my luck — I came all the way up here, and no powder?!? — but today, thanks to my age (54), years on skis (50) and the guy in front of me, the biggest ski-movie star you’ve never heard of, I’m content, conditions be damned.
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