Park City
Figuring out how to get to Deer Valley had preoccupied my mind so heavily, I forgot to think about what I would do once I arrived. Though I was reared on the streets of the City of Broad Shoulders, I was fortunate enough to spend some time in Colorado. In the six years I lived there, I averaged about 100 days a season exploring her winter playground. I would, therefore, consider myself a fairly capable skier. But a move home earlier this decade saw my slope side days nose dive to zero. In fact, I hadn't made a turn in well over two seasons. 
The "job" description the people at SKI sent me was straightforward enough; get myself to Deer Valley, test the latest and greatest from the world's top manufacturers, and swap turns with some of the best talent in the country. Though I had a pretty good idea of what to expect, I couldn't help but fly into Utah with a handful of concerns.
Two years away from the sport suddenly felt like an eternity. How long would it take me to find my ski legs? Was I good enough to tell the slight differences from one ski to the next? How would the pros feel about eight amateurs encroaching on their territory, not just on the slopes, but off them as well?
I received my first taste of ski test hospitality when Tom, seven guest testers from all over the country, and I just happened to park ourselves in the same restaurant as the pros on our first night in town. Of course we didn't know it until the waiter arrived with a round of Patron shots. I had a touch of the altitude flu and was trying to take it easy, but was forced to man up when the woman sitting on my right said she couldn't stomach tequila and the man on my left told me he didn't drink. I took their shots, as well as my own, and was cruising in no time.
The festivities continued long after dinner as we 
double-backed to the hotel for boat races and all the liquor I could handle. My team won the first couple of relays, but I was definitely the weak link. Jackson Hogen, who you may know as the Pontiff of Powder, was decent enough to tell me so, saying that I "drink beer like old women sip wine!" A reality I can't defend, but blame largely on a narrow throat caused by my crane-like features.
My first night in Deer Valley eventually came to an end with my ego slightly bruised, but my excitement for the coming morning still well-intact. I stumbled back to my condo at 2:00 a.m., just six short hours before I needed to report to the Silver Lake Lodge for breakfast and a morning briefing. As I left the party, I remember thinking, "if these guys ski as hard as they party, this week is going to be heavy on fun and light on lucid memories." I was right on both fronts.
To be continued...