The rain drives constantly down, a heavy mist really. It falls almost silently onto my black trashbag poncho, a billion tiny beads. This is weather far too wet for any Goretex, this is my home mountain, and I love every second of it. The chairs are slow, the powder wet when it comes at all, and I’d trade it for anything, but don’t you talk shit about it. This is my mountain.
I learned to ski here, Mom and Dad held me up between their legs as they pizzaed down the bunny slope. That t-bar doesn’t run anymore, the bullwheels are still there though. They should really build the park over there, the hot laps would be fun. We used to take the bus up for night skiing in middle school. Man we did some dumb shit on that bus. Remember the time Danny snorted Hot Cheetos? The red snot dripped down like a bloody nose.
We took a trip to Whistler when I was 13. We would ride the gondola up every morning, and we even got to ski knee deep powder one of the days. This wasn’t powder like back home, it was real powder. I skipped the ski bus the next week, it felt like nothing would compare after that trip. Sitting around doing nothing that night, I missed it. No not Whistler, I missed my mountain.
The years went by, I moved, went to college, and found a new mountain, but no matter what, that old mountain is my home. I’ve had days deeper than I could’ve dreamed about while sitting soaked on that double chairlift, and I’ve called them the best days ever. When I really miss skiing though, like really miss it, the days I think of are those days riding the bus, skiing in the rain, skiing the same 500’ vertical slope over and over again.