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Mountain Culture

The Soul of Cannon

The Soul of Cannon
The Soul of Cannon main
By the time I buckle my boots, the people wearing Hefty bags are already skiing. They are having an awesome time.

The sleet is coming down almost horizontally. It’s just cold enough that it freezes on contact, coating the railings of the tram dock with a solid, immediate layer of ice. I have come home to Cannon Mountain, N.H., for Christmas after becoming one of those people who leave New England for bigger mountains and deeper snow out West. I thought the Rockies had made me tough—patrolling at A-Basin, backcountry missions that call for two kinds of crampons, that kind of thing.

Ode to Montana

Ode to Montana
Ode to Montana
In the wide-open spaces of Montana, a busy day is a chance to catch your breath and the local gossip.

The blinking blue light atop the Baxter Hotel, Bozeman’s highest building, means one glorious thing to the residents of this southwest Montana town: powder day. Another lumbering highline storm has arrived to deposit that famous cold smoke on Bridger Bowl. As a listless college student in Bozeman, I’d watch it pulse through the darkness on my frigid walks home from one of Main Street’s fine drinking establishments. It would fill me with hope for a deep and lucid tomorrow, as my buddies and I struggled for clarity through all the bottom-shelf whiskey we’d just shot.

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