Constellations of sallow contusions pulse on my legs, and my elbows resemble raw meat. Sweat soaks my helmet and drips into my ski boots. I have fallen more today than in all of my 35 years of skiing. And yet, I’m grateful. This could be so much worse.
It’s a brittle, 20-degree day in Park City, Utah, and feeble sunlight falls through the holes in the clouds. It is here in the spectacular Wasatch Mountains, 40 miles east of Salt Lake City, that you’ll find some of the country’s most famous ski areas. There’s Deer Valley, with its fizzy spas and brilliant glades, and Park City Mountain, a sprawling giant with heated lifts and 7,300 acres of terrain.
But I’m at a place called Woodward, which sits off Interstate 80 near a Phillips 66. There are no condos or restaurants…