No Friends on a Groomer Day

Telluride, Colo.

My friend says he plans on using his new boards, a spring break smile folding his cheeks.

They’re a foot wide underfoot and made for more snow than we’ll see in a year. By all means, they are totally unnecessary and a waste of money. A church for Easter Sunday! A wishful thought! Should have bought a snorkel while he was at it!

Ski town translation: they are a necessary waste of money.

“I’m psyched, man,” he says. “It’s going to be so fun…”

I tell him he can barely turn regular skis. He says something unprintable involving a family member.

Another says he doesn’t care if it’s only two [expletive] runs, that it’s still skiing anyway.
I lift my eyebrows at him, as if to say, “really?”

“I didn’t grow up skiing …” he says.

And there we are at the bar, discussing current events and my friend says: “Dude, I am so glad it snowed. None of this matters anymore.”

Ding, like a microwave announcing it’s time to eat popcorn. Ding.

He’s right. Because it has snowed! Because angels have sung! Because, exalted, we go to god! We shall go to… the Village Bypass.

On the first morning of ski season, we remember a few things. That our feet hurt. That it is hard to traverse the icy alleys in ski boots. That the cold cracks your face and, when you really don’t think it could get colder, you’re carried via Lift 4 into a cloud of blowing, man-made ice.

You also have to learn how to conduct yourself like a decent human being.
Yesterday morning, Pat Healy offered to fetch the skis of Reilly Capps, who cannot be woken without a nearby nuclear blast. While Pat was fetching his skis, Capps stole Patrick’s, absconded to Lift 4, and snagged third chair.

(They’re very similar skis, and Capps claims “honest mistake” and “confusion.”)
I claim malicious intent. I have my reasons. I just think Capps took the skis closest to the lift.

But, I, too, took the low road and left Pat at the bottom. I mean I had skis, after all. He looked like an orphan down there, his slight shadow his only company. I forgot him quickly.

I guess there are no friends on a groomer day.

This little parable is hardly an anomaly in Lift 4’s storied history. Remember that time that dude with the huge beard poached the first chair from some kids? Or how about the time those dudes tried to get five people on a chair because — god help them! — they all wanted to ride the gnarr of Lift 4.

I mean come on, people. Is this what we’ve come to? Are we insane enough to stand in line in the freezing air for turns down the Bypass?

Yes, I say. Yes.

Because a day like yesterday serves as a reminder of why most of us cling to a slim existence in this box canyon.

We wash dishes. We make newspapers. We shovel sidewalks. We sling beers and burgers. We frame houses and we roll sushi.

And on good days, on days when the air’s so cold it looks like splintered diamonds and you smile into it, laughing with your crew, you feel free.

Free enough to fly on Village Bypass.