Big Springs is my favorite haunt, no matter the season.
Winter transforms it into something entirely different—quiet, vast, and alive with its own rhythm. As I hike toward the springs, backcountry skis gliding over six inches of fresh powder, I notice the air moving toward me, funneled down the canyon. No branches sway, no visible sign of wind, yet a cool current brushes my cheeks. It’s the kind of sensation you don’t just observe—you feel it, as if nature itself is in motion, unseen but undeniable.
Felt but not seen. It’s what pilots, parasailers, and kite enthusiasts call catabatic flow—the downhill movement of cold air. What seems invisible holds immense power, shaping movement in ways we may not recognize until we’re caught in its grip. At night and in winter, as canyon walls release heat, dense air drains down the slopes, pooling in low-lying areas. Understanding these flows is crucial—strong catabatic winds can create dangerous turbulence for pilots, unpredictable lift and drop zones for parasailers, and sudden collapses for kitesurfers. What looks like a gentle breeze can shift into a destabilizing force in an instant.
The opposite, anabatic flow, occurs when the sun heats the slopes and warmer air rises, pulling air upward. These unseen rivers of air dictate where frost lingers, where plants take root, and how wildlife moves through the landscape.
These flows are daily occurrences in canyons, yet many remain unaware of them. Down in the broad valleys, life is shielded from these shifting winds, existing in a kind of wind shadow—protected but missing the constant ebb and flow that shapes the landscape above.
The quiet amplifies the experience, making each movement feel more intentional, more connected. Tracks crisscross the snow—deer, squirrels, rabbits. Maybe a cougar. My skis crunch over untouched snow, and as I enter untracked terrain, my mind seizes a thought: trusting the felt-but-unseen forces in life. A metaphor for faith.
The power is always there, but do I let it shape me? Am I willing to move with it rather than resist? Just as the wind carves the canyon and snow settles into familiar patterns, I wonder—am I allowing my faith to mold me in the same way?
Backcountry touring is entirely different from resort skiing. Only my toe is connected to the ski, allowing for natural movement uphill but demanding balance and skill on the descent. As I reach the upper meadow, I pause, absorbing the stillness before crossing a frozen stream and threading through trees. Emerging at the edge of an untouched meadow, I take a deep breath and drop in.
Cutting smooth arcs in fresh snow is the ultimate feeling of flow—the sensation of floating, perfect orientation, a presence that is both fully aware and blissfully lost. What my brother calls “flow state.” I drop my inside knee into deep telemark turns, the skis carving effortlessly. Until—one ski tip plunges through the surface, sending me tumbling. My landing? An unmistakable sitz mark.
Flow is fleeting. Just when you think you’ve mastered the moment, reality grounds you. Hah!
Backcountry skiing, like life, is about listening—to the terrain, the body, the moment. Some days call for an easy pace; others demand an all-out push. Moving at the right rhythm unlocks something deeper: awe. Studies show that awe—whether in nature, music, or meaningful moments—reduces stress, improves mood, and enhances sleep. Time in the mountains resets something inside us.
My QHP—quiet, happy place. That’s flow.
This same principle applies to work, creativity, and life. Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi (pronounced “chick-sent-me-high-ee”)—yes, that’s the business theory guy’s name—described flow as a state of full immersion, where effort feels effortless, time dissolves, and we operate at our highest level. Just like catabatic winds, flow isn’t always obvious, but you can sense when you’re in it.
A quick self-test:
- Do you lose track of time while engaged in a task?
- Does your mind feel fully present rather than scattered?
- Do you feel energized rather than drained afterward?
If yes, you’re in flow. If not, something is blocking it—distractions, misalignment of skills, a lack of challenge. Maybe the trail is too steep. Or too flat. Maybe you lack the right tools. Or maybe you’re overqualified for the task at hand. If frustration or boredom sets in, it’s a sign you’re out of sync. Adjust your approach, refine your skills, or shift your mindset to view obstacles as opportunities.
Flow happens when effort meets the right challenge at the right time.
Standing in the cold canyon, feeling the air move past me, I think about how often I resist the natural flows in my life—trying to force an uphill battle when I could move with the current. There’s wisdom in surrendering to rhythms already in place, whether in nature or personal pursuits.
Sometimes, the best move isn’t to fight the wind but to understand its direction—and go with it.
Taking a deep breath, I resolve to trust these unseen currents—to let them shape me rather than resist them. Life, like the wind, is always moving, always shifting. The real question is whether I will fight against it or learn to move with it.
Exhaling, I kick a turn and ski home.
