It all started with a call from my good friend Pat in Hyde Park, Vt., on Monday afternoon, March 8. “Dude, there is already two feet at the house,” he said. It took me five seconds to put together a plan to be at Jay Peak for opening chair the next day. I hastily packed my board, boots, gloves, helmet, cooler of leftover pot roast and lasagna, a 12-pack of Long Hammer, and my snow clothes that never seem to get a chance to be washed.

The driving didn’t appear to be much of a challenge, at first. But, reaching Concord, I could tell I was in for a long ride. A nice layer of solid ice coated trees and the road. Cars in snowbanks became a common sight. After crossing over into Vermont, falling snow joined the party. Traffic crept along single-file, no one daring to venture out of the worn black tracks and into the completely white passing lane.

When I finally reached my destination, high fives were thrown up, beers were imbibed, and talk about getting rad in the pow dominated the conversation. After trying to turn in early, I lay in bed looking at the clock, watching the early morning hours tick by, visions of snowflakes dancing in my head. I managed to get about three hours of sleep, waking before my alarm went off at 6:30.

On the way to Jay, 10-foot snowbanks and completely white roads created a scene straight out of “Ice Road Truckers” in the middle of the Arctic. Jay had reportedly received 42 inches of snow, or three and a half feet. Even on a Tuesday, the line for the tram was a mile long with an hour wait. The place was mobbed with people looking to get a piece of this epic storm.

The crew I rode with was eight deep, a good mix of skiers and snowboarders, all drooling at the mouth and ready to shred. As we took one of the first chairs up on the less crowded Flyer Quad, scores of powder-hungry riders descended from the first tramcar, tracking up the face shoots on the peak. Screams of ecstasy, hoots and hollers echoed across the mountain.

Our first run was through the Beaver Glades. Bottomless pow sprayed over our heads as we all entered the white room. The next few runs were an orgasmic blur of trees, deep powder, and dodging tourists stuck in the snow, trying to figure out why the mountain wasn’t groomed. The eight of us were weaving through trees and human traffic at blazing speeds, like a flock of winter birds.  

My mind finally caught up to my body as we dropped into the glades off the Jet triple. Metallica’s “Wherever I May Roam” rotated in on my iPod’s playlist, the lyrics ringing clear. I pondered them while plunging through a chest-deep wind drift, over a few small trees, off a couple of rock drops—all at what felt like 100 mph. Heavy guitar riffs sent adrenaline shivers through my legs, driving me up and over any obstacle in my path.

As the crowds devoured the fresh snow, it was time to escape and do “The Dip.” As we dropped out of bounds off the side of the mountain, I thought about getting powder photos. That is, until I found myself unconsciously straight-lining through a 300-foot section of trees, with more to go over the next ridge. There was no time for ski porn on a day like this. 

After four more dip runs, lunch, beers, and some safety talk, I ventured back out on the mountain with my buddy Phil. He had spent the night sleeping in his car on Interstate 91 while trying to drive overnight from New Jersey—a definite powder junky. We spent the remainder of the afternoon searching the woods for any untouched snow. It was the biggest storm of the year, and we took advantage of every flake.