Ahead of me, Tom Telluride boogied more expertly and enthusiastically, "shaking my assets," he bragged out loud. He had been righteously shaking them since the mid-seventies when we both first moved to Lake Tahoe. It all seems so long ago.

Those were the days before snowboards, cell phones, and SUV's, websites, and the X generation humping on MTV. Back then, Tom and I dated girls who did homework, and we skied a ton. Palisades Tahoe's KT-22, the Headwall, and the Bear Pen bar were our favorite hangs.

Tom was always relaxed and breezy, having a good time, screaming into his turns, and digging it. He was a typical Sierra thrill seeker, I suppose. Tom was built like a quarterback. He had dark-hair, was good looking, and he was so cool you could use him to heal warts. Women enjoyed his routine.

When we skied, I tagged along and he was always pushing us both towards the edge of the possible. Once we were on top of the Palisades. All day we'd been going gonzo, skiing hard and charging from chair to chair as if we'd just bounced off the ionosphere onto the snow. That day the light was turning bad, shadows were lengthening, and clouds were swirling in from Sacramento like the tide moves into the Bay of Fundy. Our world was moving under the dying sun and I thought to myself: "This must be the greatest place on earth."

"This could be disaster," I said to Tom a few minutes later as he studied our planned descent near the roped-off cliff line along the top of Main Chute. It looked like a drop into vertigo.

"Pattycakes," he responded. "Skiing is integrity. Only romance is disaster." With that he led us on an uncorked, beautiful run down into Siberia Bowl. Time was suspended.

• • •
After 30 years of it, skiing at Lake Tahoe still allows me to confront the difference between myth and reality. The memory of Tom helps, too. His inner-lit, metaphysical cackle still echoes and rolls toward his inexorable conclusion that, well, every thing really is everything...as we would stand at the top of Squaw with the entire spine of the Sierra Nevada strung out around us.

With the start of each winter here at Tahoe, there still is enough space dust and magic to constantly generate childhood smiles. The circle of seasons creates a continuing wonder.

Skiing is more than a sport as a person ages. Riding the lift gets to be an act of meditation. Taking the fall line is a chance to pay homage to the mountain. Maybe all skiers are crazy, maybe not.