I don’t ski. Or snowboard. Something about “the art of catching cold and going broke while rapidly heading nowhere at great personal risk” (though that definition can accurately describe most aspects of my life anyway).
But ski-bum culture has always fascinated me. It’s a mix of reggae and pop and club remixes and a hint of new-age lounge. It’s cigar smoke and beer and all natural olive oil soap. These are people who spend all year waiting for that fresh powder.
They spend thousands of dollars on sick gear but are willing to fit 10 people in one double bed in one hotel room just to save money on their ski trip.
They know all about wine but prefer to drink beer.
They’ve read Vonnegut and Kerouac and enjoyed them but prefer to flip through Powder Magazine and Athleta catalogs. They tease beginners, but only because they remember THEIR first times, and they were all awful. They love the outdoors and roaring fireplaces and good food and don’t mind that their boots crush their toes and give them blisters that will last until next fall.
They are arrogant and self-absorbed and well-educated and friendly and always laughing.
I think next year, I will learn how to ski.
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