Silence and sun, animal tracks across the glistening snow, bitter nights, an icy river and bluebird days are the prime memories from a New Year's Eve outing to an isolated cabin north of Ojo Caliente in the Tusas Mountains — a subrange of the Brazos.

While many hard-core skiers spend thousands of dollars to travel to Alaska and other remote destinations to secure claims of "first descents," I was able to bag a handful of new runs on the excursion. It was a subtle thrill to slide like silk through the stand of massive old-growth ponderosas we've nicknamed the Hall of Giants. Normally carpeted with a blanket of pine needles, on this trip the ground lay under a foot to 18 inches of week-old snow. It varied from sugar-like consistency in the shade to crusty where sun had gotten to it, or heavy and wet in the full sun.

By carefully picking out lines that avoided anything that might indicate a rock or a fallen log, I was able to eke out short runs of 10-to-12 turns in the ponderosa alleys before stopping and hiking back up. Continuing up the slowly rising ridge, the runs got longer and longer, and the pitch steeper and steeper. Here, one run might have covered a few hundred vertical feet as I dropped into what we call Blue Bird Pass. My speed picked up and everything began to come at me faster and faster. I winced as I skied over several rocks, trying to pick a path that kept me away from stands of trees and obvious deadfalls.

My three dogs were astounded by all this, bounding along beside me and then getting left in the fluff as I accelerated away. I let out a whoop as I reached the snow-packed forest road and pulled up. My skis took a bit of a beating but such is the price for breaking barriers. I clicked out, wiped the clingy snow from my boards, laid them over my shoulder and began to hike back up.

I have snow-shoed in this area, and once I tried to ski these same slopes on antique cross-country gear — both topics of former columns. Why, I now wondered, had I never brought along my downhill skis?

I pushed out a bit into the meadow and found one of the "islands" of sun-warmed and dried ponderosa needles at the base of a tree. I plopped down against its south-facing trunk, and broke out sandwiches, a cold beer and other goodies. Really, does life get much better than this?

Food consumed, dogs treated to scraps and the beer drained, the sun began to lower into the sky and our sweaty underclothing began to cool. Time to get moving again. My legs felt like lead when I stood up, but soon we were back in stride and one more long run back into the river-filled valley awaited.

Here, I studied tracks of elk through the snow and noted their squareish droppings. I would look, in vain, for the breathing holes on the ice-covered river of the beavers that had taken up residence last summer. Officers of the state game and fish department, I learned, had come recently and trapped and killed them. I mourned their loss, as they added a dynamic element to the riverine ecosystem that was fascinating to watch, and were creating excellent trout habitat with their damming activities.

I come here only as an infrequent visitor — recreationalist and urban escapist — to an age-old realm where wind, sky, water in all its forms, rock, black dirt, woody growth and wildlife dominate-or should. I am the interlopers here, and enter this graceful valley and climb its slopes and enjoy its waters only by the grace of some higher powers.

Happy New Year and many first descents to all.

Daniel Gibson can be reached at dbgibson@newmexico.com