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Perspectives on skiing, ski resorts, the ski industry, tourism, the environment and the Jumbo Glacier Resort project.
At 125 miles an hour, the Idaho state patrol car lifts and drifts, a cushion of air cupping its undercarriage, freaky speed-float like a pair of 223s running straight, high-desert Joshua trees flashing past the windows like stroboscopic prison bars. The Crown Vic is a full-on black-and-white cruiser, stripped of lights, decals, and shotgun rack…4.6 liters of V8…all four tires in various stages of balding—I’ve nicknamed them Rob Story, Les Anthony, Tom Bie, and, the one that’s bare as a baby’s bottom, Casimiro. I see the 70 mph limit, raise it a double nickel, and have Barstow in the rearview, Alta on the radar, Brian Head in between, a full tank of gas, forty-gig iPod, two Starbucks empties, and a Red Bull can shivering on the floor. Who says there’s no direction in my life? North’s a direction, right?