You're roaring down a long and winding snow-covered mountain track. The air is buffeting against your cold cheeks. The next undulation appears in the distance and you make a note of it. There's a sudden dip in the terrain and you quickly adapt your body angle — too late — your balance is lost and you push with all your might to get your inside edge biting again...but you are not going to make it.

The muscles in your thighs are straining and hurting but refuse to give way. Suddenly, your edges grip and swing you upright. You've caught an inside edge, throwing you totally off balance. Now you're leaning backwards, with one leg at an awkward angle, and you punch your arms forward hoping to regain more effective weight distribution. It works.

With both skis on the ground, you regain control, promising never to get yourself out of control again.

We've all done it sometimes, though some prefer not to admit it. In my mind, this is the one area that sums up why skiing is so addictive: it's all about that human desire to learn.

If we are honest with ourselves, we are not happy unless we are taking part in an activity that involves learning and self-improvement. The minute we believe we have reached that elusive plateau and have nothing else to master, we lose that craving to go out there and to compete.

Abraham Harold Maslow, the American psychologist (1908-70) developed a theory of motivation based on the human need to seek individual progress involving both primary (basic) needs and secondary (self-achievement) levels of motivation. Here, in this "secondary" part of his theory, lies the reason why skiing, or any mountain sport for that matter, is so addictive.

The theory relies on the belief that it is human nature to eventually strive for self-fulfillment and the need to learn and understand. Seen in light of this, humans are geared towards optimizing stimulation.

Since sports such as skiing, surfing, ice climbing, etc., involve an infinite variety of challenges, we are extremely unlikely as individuals ever to achieve that elusive state of self-fulfillment... and the end of our curiosity. We may finish the day buzzing on a high of adrenaline, but tomorrow is another day with fresh challenges and new places to explore.

Even if you had just completed the most challenging run of your career, only a fool would think he or she had skied the ultimate, never to be outdone, run of all time. There is always more. It's this aspect of winter sports that appeals to the adventurous side of nature. It's the very fact that tomorrow is a different day with new conditions and places to be explored. Even if we feel we have completed some of the most technically difficult runs, there is that nagging feeling at the back of our minds that there is still some part of our technique that needs brushing up. This is what motivates skiers, surfers and climbers alike. This need for constant improvement, the need to explore, and more importantly, the desire to learn.

Although the previous paragraphs may help to explain why mountain sport activities are so magnetic, there is still something else about spending time literally on the top of a peak that is immensely attractive yet hard to describe. The subjective nature of winter sports includes inner feelings that only the individual can make sense of. How can you put feelings into words about days with a foot of fresh snow on the slopes? I shall attempt to do it:

Sit back and close your eyes. . . imagine . . . mountains, blue skies, skis on your shoulder and not a worry in the world. The rocks are covered with fresh crystals, and you are first in the lift line. This is a powder day. There's you, the mountain and a small group of friends all heading for a secret spot you know (well maybe a lot more know about it too - but pretend today it's your secret). Once off the gondola, there is a rush as everyone heads for their own small spot. After a short traverse, while making sure no strangers are following, you hit your first powder run of the day.

Behind you are two rocky peaks. The smaller one is covered in weeks of accumulated snow and the other reflects sunlight off its sparkling glacier. Below, the slope is wide and open, gleaming with waist-deep snow, eventually disappearing in the distance below a ridge. All around, wherever you look, there are other peaks dripping with freshly fallen snow. In the distance, the heavy clouds that only recently covered the slopes, slowly recede.

One at a time, to avoid avalanche risk, you go, and you're first. There is not a track in sight and before long the wake of snow is obscuring your view. You create a firm base on which your skis can turn by pushing into the deep, fresh snow. The sense you feel is one of floating. This must be a dream. With every turn, the fresh snow is so light it feels like cold wind blowing against your face. It touches your entire body as it flows around you. It's incredible, and the snow gets deeper. There must be a meter of fresh snow. The adrenaline starts to flow through your body as the thought of avalanche comes into your mind. However, there's no stopping now. To do so would only create problems. So you keep going.

Out of nowhere the slope rises and before you know it, you're airborne. For the first time in 30 turns your visibility has returned. You take the small, two-meter jump and land perfectly. Trees are starting to appear now, all of which are dripping with three days of snowfall clinging to them. You veer off to the left, creating a huge rooster-tail spray of powder, some of which settles on the already covered trees.

You see a small outcrop of rocks and quickly steer away from it. A new line appears through the trees. This is combat skiing. Though the trees are close, they are not so densely packed as to prevent you from skiing a line through them. The skills that you've developed over the years will be pushed to the limits as you attempt to weave between them.

Once in the trees, the snow is less deep, the spray less intense, but the plumes are still there as you pass the trees: one, two, three ... you leave each tree behind in a wake of snow. Then, the slope disappears below you, but you react instantly. Although your arms flail for a second, you recover your composure and regain control. Still moving, you wipe your goggles clean and see the run is nearing an end; two more turns to go. You sink down to complete a perfect run when, without warning, you loose it.

Head over heels, you tumble freely. You roll with the incline until you naturally come to a stop. There is no need to struggle, just let the deep cold powder bring you to a halt. This leaves you buried up to the neck in powder light snow, destroying an otherwise perfect run, but it doesn't matter. You shout in excitement and encouragement to your friends. The sight of your tracks through the trees and others following is all that matters. Your body is buzzing with adrenaline. You are covered in a substance that is intoxicating — not by itself— but in the visions and actions it creates. This is the nature of skiing. It inspires.