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Confessions of Foothills Man

I met him a few miles west of Saddle Rock. I was snowshoeing uphill through a foot of week-old snow—plodding. He was weaving parallel turns through the sagebrush—gliding. He caught sight of me when we were a hundred yards apart and rounded a turn to a stop. He stood there deciding how to confront this queer animal contaminating his ski run.