You don't just happen upon a powder day. You live for it, wait for it and, when it arrives, hustle for it. You pick your line from the lift and, without slowing to savor the view, dive in, greedy for that first taste, the moment when gravity overtakes friction and you're floating weightless, marveling that you might never sink. But then you sink and, on some level, in some perverse way, you want to keep sinking, to be totally engulfed by the object of your desire. Then it hits you, chokes you-the face shot, a crystallized metaphor for too much of a good thing. Sputtering as your skis bob to the surface, you smile and dive in for more.