Does It Look Like I'm Skiing?

People hear I'm in Colorado and assume I'm skiing.

I don't usually correct them unless they pose a question. In March, it's a natural assumption, sort of like people hear you're going to Minnesota in the winter and assume you're deranged or have run out of options.

Where I am, the ground is dry, the temperature will allow me on the golf course tomorrow, and the sky... Well, the sky is that other picture just a little south of here.

You may remember something similar and hope to see it yet again without a trail of steam exhaled across your lens.

I could be skiing, though. It's just that I'm one of those Colorado natives who never took it up any more seriously than I have lobster. I've partaken  enough to know why people like it and then moved on.

Where I grew up, just 40 miles north of Aspen (I also watched Vail sprout from mountain meadows), skiing was part of the culture, but more like drag racing or making out at the drive-in than a  money-drenched, town transforming, meet Cher and Dick Cheney if you can get past their people kind of pastime.

Though it wasn't just for rich kids and tourists in the '60s, it did have some of that vibe, and if you were doing a winter sport, your coaches were way down on it. The message was: Don't ski if you want to compete. We can't count on you if you go off and break your leg.

As someone who was both a rebel and team player, skipping the skiing felt about right.

Now, it just seems like too much trouble for adrenalin, endorphins or whatever. My heart beats just fine for a cactus or a patch of slickrock, and there's no waiting.

Comments

[serns]

No, it looks like you're taking souls (top picture).