From time to time, we will be traveling with friends who may share their unique perspectives of our adventures. This is a recount of events that went down at our good friend Clint aka C-Dog aka DJ Tastes Like Chicken in Layton, UT. Warning: this recollection is PG-13 for offensive language and may require an urbandictionary translation. Please proceed to read at your own discretion.
By C-Dog
I knew sh!t was going down in East Side Layton when I saw a pimpin’ pimpin’, stretched-out RV rollin’ up on dubs pull into the neighborhood. I’m normally not a person to judge people, but that Clint guy is one true gangster. Most neighbors know him only as the BAMF, but I had the pleasure to hear him scratching it up as DJ Tastes Like Chicken one night, but that is another story. Getting back to the sh!t going down, of course the R-Vizzle pulled right up into Clint’s driveway. I immediately sent the wife and kids inside the house, cocked the nine and prepared for some Mexican cartel BS. I learned one thing over the last year that one needed to be prepared when Clint’s homies were in town. As I read the side of the RV, I let out a sigh of relief once I realized the gangsters rolling in were the same MF’s I met last night in downtown SLC, some organic love life J-Tree crew. I had nothing to fear as long as I didn’t get between them and a hotdog served by the crazy dancing Russian.
The following morning I happened to be walking the dog down the street and some fly guy in camo boxers and a pair of cowboy boots stepped out of the RV. My few interactions with the BAMF had taught me some gangster slang so I said, “what’s up G.” I didn’t really understand what he said next, but apparently there was something called “pow pow nar nar” that was going to get shredded up that day at Powder Mountain. I nodded and continued back to the house thinking they must be up to something awesome. A few minutes later I saw the RV rolling out filled with the happy family of six gangsters. Later that day I gave a friend of mine who was ski patrol at Powder Mountain a call to inquire about this stuff called “pow pow nar nar”. He laughed and said they were talking about the fresh snow and that it must be awesome to roll up to the resort in a ride like theirs. He had seen the gangsters ripping the pow pow all day and one guy in particular was covered head to toe in white. He must have been a MF from Vegas!
The next day I watched as the RV rolled out again. I had learned that morning the crew was heading to Snowbasin to shred the nar pow. Damn I sound gangster. If I was going to pick a place to die it would have to be one of the bathroom stalls at Snowbasin because you couldn’t die anywhere else more luxurious besides maybe the St. Petersburg Cathedral. It had to be a nice day of eight inches of light and fluffy on top up the freshly groomed runs. I’m sure they found themselves lost in the clouds of strawberry not knowing what lay in front of them. Just before dusk the RV cruised back in. It must have been another family dinner around the knights of the round table by the number of grocery bags they were carrying in. I always wonder what it must be like to be sipping on magic makers with such good friends around that table. Over the next few days the gangster family got smaller as some headed back to their normal hustlin’ lives. I’m still trying to figure out why a roll of duct tape, a seat from a whitewhater couch, and a snowboard were loaded into the back of the astro van one day. 
They must have been working on some top secret snow missile program. It has been a few weeks now and I’m sure the BAMF is aware that the J-Tree RV will be setting sail in the winds across America. But he knows best, if you love something you must set it free.