Right around the time when the leg-burn kicked in on my second run — and somewhere in the snow-plastered trees lining Revy’s Ripper Chair — I caught an edge and went airborne. Skis, poles, gloves, goggles, limbs, everything flying and flailing in a chaotic extravaganza of ineptitude. (Perhaps my visit to The Village Idiot, the local watering hole, the evening prior was a factor?) At any rate, during the wonderment of flight, I became somewhat worried. What would I hit when I landed? As it turned out, pillow-soft snow makes for a fine re-entry. Revelstoke was hitting all the right notes. Read More