There are way too many amazing memories formed in the mountains to have any single one stand out. But one story that happens quite often, happens to be my favorite type of day. It usually starts with a wake up around 4:00 AM, quick coffee and eggs and out the door. Drive to a trailhead, link up with friends and jump on the snowmobiles. We race out to the trail but make a right turn in a spot we've never turned right on before. Soon we're semi-lost, punching up some unexplored valley, winding through trees and creek beds hoping to find a way into the alpine. After searching for a route for hours, we finally make it to the bottom of a sky-scraper sized wall of perfect, powdery spines. We ditch the snowmobiles and start climbing straight up the face. After wallowing through waist-deep snow up the 55 degree face for many hours, we top out just before sunset. We hastily gear up, put our game faces on and ski down the nearly vertical spines, bouncing, floating, and sliding our back down. We pound high fives, let out screams of pure joy and then get back on the snowmobiles to find our way out of the mountains and arrive back to the trucks in the dark of night. Then we do it all over again the next day.