I tend to tuck myself off to the side of a trail when I'm visible from above, and that usually works — but not always. One heavy-snow day a couple of seasons ago, my legs were burning up on Westside, a wide, wide, wide-open groomer at Sunapee. So I turned a little, stopped, and looked upslope, moving slowly toward the edge. There was a guy working the side of the trail way up, and I kept my eye on him as I traversed, sure he could see me because I was right in front of him and well down-slope. I arrived at the edge well in advance of him, still watching. He kept coming straight at me, and then, at the last second, he seemed to notice me and passed right close with a snarl of irritation. I was in his line, you see, a god-given line he'd inherited from his father and from his father before him.