You either have so many choices—such a wide expanse of space, a million lines and a million options—or you have none: a death-defying, boulder-scraping drop off the end, a last minute bail to avoid a tree-trunk, one wrong step and it’s over. You choose your path, the wide frolic or the narrow chute. It’s harder, the one with more options: you wait too long, you mess up a turn, knowing or thinking you’ll have time to fix it later, but it was never quite as smooth, as nice, as fulfilling or exquisite or exhilarating as that time when you fell through the air into a perfect side landing and around the treetop peeking out below. A perfect navigation of near-impossible terrain, no other option, or an imperfect shuffling muddle through a hodgepodge of road blocks: in skiing, as in life?