There is an easier way than this. All I have to do is look over my left shoulder and I can see proof of that. Across the notch from me is a small ski area and when the wind gusts just right, I can hear the hoots and yelps of the skiers and boarders as I watch them zip down the groomed trails and thinned glades to the chair lift. I admit to feeling some envy as I watch them race and carve about for the last bits of untracked snow.

But, to my right, above my vantage point in this small snowfield, untracked powder stretches up over the rise, into the trees and to the next, larger snowfield that’s just a short hike away. I have been hiking for almost an hour now, my snowboard lashed to my backpack, snowshoes on my feet, trekking poles in my hands. No one has been up here since the last snowfall. This morning, this mountain, this snow, seem to be mine alone. Envy fades.

Soon, I’m on a small ledge just below the summit. The snowboard is now on my feet, my snowshoes and poles on my back, and it’s time to go down. A thought hits me. There are no trails, no color coded symbols indicating difficulty, no ropes, no caution signs, no one to show me the way. It is only me, the sun, the snow, the trees, the wind and gravity. In this moment, I feel more freedom than I can recall feeling since… well… ever. This is mine.

I take a couple of hops, gravity takes hold of my board and I’m carving down the ledge. The board floats in the soft snow, its edges biting just enough into the crust underneath as I weave around trees. I turn left, away from my tracks coming up, and cruise over drops and bumps that look more like dollops of powdery frosting than the gnarled icy moguls at the ski area across the way. It’s unbelievably fun and I’m laughing out loud when I suddenly drop into a 4 foot deep hole left when the snow, undermined by melt water, collapsed before the last snowfall. I’m still laughing as I climb up the other side and continue on.

To my left are steep ledges, in front of me, a grove of spruce, fir and birch trees thickens and the ground seems to drop away – steep ledges, perhaps, so no turns there. The trees at the edge of the grove allow just enough room to traverse across. Branches slap at my legs, my arms, my pack, my helmet, my face. Now I’m stuck a small cluster of saplings and have to pull myself through them. It’s not the easy, floating turns from the start, but as I look upslope, I realize the snowfield is bigger than I thought. Ideas for my second run start forming.

I find a gap in the evergreens that leads to a ledge I can shoot down, and then I’m back in a wide glade of young maples and birches. The trees and their shadows slash across the sun white snow. I pick my lines: around that tree, between those two, now duck under this one, watch out for that stump. And then my way is blocked by a downed tree across a small gully, beyond which lies the hiking trail back up. So, I sidle up to the fallen tree, wrap my arms around and roll over it. I stand up and board the last bit down to hiking trail.

And that is that. After an hour of hiking and 7 minutes of snowboarding, I’m nearly back where I started. But I have more runs to get. I eat a PB&J, swap the board for snowshoes and head back up.

About four hours and three runs later, I call it a day. Fatigue sets in and my turns are sloppy, lacking grace and accuracy. As I come around a bend in trail, I find that a section of it has melted out. I attempt to squeeze by on the right hand side of this three foot wide, two foot deep, twelve foot long hole in the trail. My attempt fails.

As I pick myself up from this tumble, it occurs me that this day could serve well as a metaphor for life: You have climb up, find your way down, enjoy some parts, get stuck in others, work it out and keep going. And, in the end, you get a dirt nap, or, in this particular case, a face plant into a very icy mud puddle.

More than a few years ago, my buddy Brian decided he needed a more comfortable beach chair. Not satisfied with the chairs he could find in the stores, he set about designing his own. Inspiration struck on a drive to Maine (the state he now calls home) and the Oh Yeah Comfy beach chair was born!

I remember the first time I saw the original chair because when I asked him where he got it, he just said, “I made it.” Naturally, I didn’t believe him at first. It just seemed too well made. But, I was wrong. Brian had, in fact, made the most comfortable beach chair I ever sat in. Soon, I owned one. And, a year or so later, I gave one as a gift to Mary (my then potentially-future-wife).

The chair definitely started a buzz among Brian’s friends and many of us ended up owning one. And, most of the time any of us would have them out, strangers would complement them and check them out. So, Brian followed his dream and went into the beach chair business.

From time to time, he would tell some interesting stories about where the chairs have ended up (glitzy photo shoots in at posh Vegas hotels, Hawaiian beach resorts, Scott’s V.W. bus, etc.). Then, two days ago, I had my own OYC chair sighting. That made my day (and writing this is to make Brian’s day).

I was driving around the parking lot at Kettle Cove in Cape Elizabeth, Maine. The sun was setting and groups of picnickers dotted the beach and grassy point there. In of those small groups, I saw it: a blue OYC standing proudly amid some rickety imported metal beach chairs. But what made my day was that I didn’t recognize, even vaguely, the person sitting in it. That’s the first time I saw a stranger in one of his chairs, and I took it as proof that Brian is on the right track. His chairs are so comfy strangers will buy them!

He’s still making his chairs in Maine and if you get sick of buying lousy metal chairs year after year, check out an Oh Yeah Comfy chair. The canvas and bungee-sprung seat will keep you comfy for years! Ayup.