I pull them on over my blistered feet and blackened toenails.After getting dressed, I stumble into the kitchen and throw a pot of coffee on while I go through the mental checklist... "skis, boots, poles, goggles, gloves, beacon, shovel, probe, water...". Next door I see a light flick on where my neighbor is going through the same groggy morning ritual; he has left his fat funshape skis on the porch for me to load up-- he must hope that the mountains got more snow than the quarter-inch dusting we got in town. A station wagon pulls up next to my well-loved old 4-Runner and out pop three scruffy caffeine-deprived dirtbags who will be joining us on our dawn patrol of Laramie's finest: Centennial Ridge. A 45-minute drive takes us to the tiny town of Centennial, nestled at the base of the Snowy Range and home to our beloved Bear Tree Tavern which we won't have time to visit before going to work. From there we drive slowly across cattle-guards on the public forest service road and past "No Trespassing" signs erected by shotgun weilding ranchers who "don't want no hippie ski freaks on their property" (which most of the time isn't actually theirs). The moon is nearly full, the snow is slightly better than expected, and we start up the skintrack sans headlamps.  Halfway up, the ever-present Wyoming wind slows our progress and drifts our meager snow onto the easterly aspects. 1200 feet of skinning brings us to the top of the "Question Mark" slope, where we are bathed in spectacular alpenglow while we sip more coffee from thermoses, rip skins, and tighten buckles. To the south we can see the Rawah wilderness and Rocky Mountain National Park, to the west, Medicine Bow Peak and Browns Peak; to the east Sheep Mountain and the Laramie Range. The snow seems... decent. For the Ridge, that is. The dust on crust makes for buttery-smooth, fast skiing down to the bottom of Powder Reserves where we skin up and do it all over again. Some of us hit rocks, some ski backward, and some make the less-than-graceful telemark faceplants after catching a tip on the half-buried sagebrush. It's all part of skiing in Southeast Wyoming... my neighbor likens it to Laramie's famous (or infamous?) Buckhorn Bar: "It's a little ghetto, but we love it anyway!" The Ridge is truly no Teton Pass or Little Cottonwood; it's little powder stashes are kept fresh by the little snow and lotta wind for the perhaps 15 or 20 people who ski it on a semi-regular basis. Few things feel as satisfying as putting in a little extra effort to earn a couple thousand vert before starting the day. Back in town we all rush to get to work or class on time, some of us stumbling in a little late still wearing ski pants and holding coffee mugs, blissfull smiles plastered to our goggle-tanned faces.