Cannon: Thank you, sir. May I have another?
Cannon makes you work. Great skiers routinely get spanked in the trees at Cannon. Unlike almost any other mountains save perhaps Mansfield, you really suffer for the best turns at Cannon. That type of rigor elevated my skiing as I was developing my tree chops and skiing Cannon more than any where else. But I don’t ski Cannon much any more. And it shows whenever I return to my home mountain.
Despite a claimed twenty four hour total of eleven inches, I immediately had trouble finding snow deeper than my boot buckles. I started on Mittersill in hopes that the lift being closed yesterday would have kept traffic to a minimum. The limited fresh felt nice but my favorite slot on the mountain was already well bumped and deeply troughed from yesterday. It was time to go into the woods in earnest and employ noontime plans just after the opening bell.
Epic descents were had and up to eight inches of fresh was slayed. I worked. I sweated. I fell on the hard pack outside the Tram Summit Station and busted the toe piece on one of my bindings. Oops. I made it work. Just like the mountain was making me work.



