Look into transparent blue through to pinyon pine lightheaded uphill, snow packed enough to grip along a narrow middle strip in the trail, body english hyper perpendicular across silvery ice. Branches, canyon walls, falling degrees lean in, hear the snapping over the rushing flow at each stream crossing. Above some contour line the powder gets deep, but not before a complete exhalation into the ridges, into the now soundless, not before the way the turning around offers a winding drop back, pull my gaiter over my grin.
Connect a foothills neighborhood to those DB trails, winding meander crunch variously over frost, crumble pebble patch, a dip into mud and out again, ridge and roll. Festive farolito streets, buzz the fat tires onto a rail path with bundled nodding bright gazed cycle commuters.
Many thanks to Owen, Dylan, and Mike at The Broken Spoke for setting me up with a familiar feeling blue Pugs. Great guys, great shop.