Published in Powder Magazine, December 2006. It’s about last winter. Here’s to more of the same.

By David Gonzales

In mid January, the phone company cut off my service. In February, I noticed. On my way out the door, skis in hand, I happened to pick up the phone, which had been knocked off its cradle the day or maybe the week before. I clicked it on and put it to my ear.

Silence.

I laughed, threw it on the couch, and headed out. Anybody I needed to talk to I’d find in the tram line. Or maybe I wouldn’t. No friends on a powder day, as they say. And no bills to pay, no groceries to buy, no errands to run. I felt only one obligation, to the fat flakes that filled the sky, day after day after day. They were my supervisors, my excuses, my saviors. Bless their icy little hearts.

Of course, I’m supposed to a responsible adult. I’ve got a career, or had a career, before the weeklong Christmas storm that dumped eight feet in ten days. At that point I was still being productive, responsible, whatever. As the storm revved up, Doug Workman called me to ski. I told him I had to work. Pause. “What a waste,” he said, with that particular way he can impart a mocking sneer over the phone. “Listen, you don’t live here to get ahead. You don’t live here for a career. This is Jackson Hole, right? Every buck you make here is worth less. Why waste your time? See you on the tram dock.”

Ah yes, the tram dock, where the nylon-hooded acolytes gathered daily to rejoice in nature’s bounty while bemoaning their impending loss. “People in Jackson Hole don’t really need an excuse to blow everything off to ski,” said Jimmy Chin. “But this year they had one.” In the back of everybody’s mind was the sad fact that in April, the 40-year-old Jackson Hole tram would be decommissioned, pink-slipped like a Detroit autoworker. Every day brought more snow and fewer chances to ride the tram. If they happened to be workdays, so be it. Ski ’em all, let God sort ’em out.

It was the most bittersweet of winters, or maybe it just smelled that way. In January, it snowed 25 of 31 days, leaving a large part of Jackson’s population with no time to do laundry or attend to the other niceties of civilization. We lived on coffee and salty grease stuffed into tortillas, averting scurvy with extra jalapeños. We neglected our mates, homes, and ski edges – all of dubious value when it’s dumping. We put on the same polypro day after joyful day, and collectively stank like hell. We kept the Gore-Tex zipped up.

It was a season to remember. Or maybe not. As Christian Senf said, “You know, I never really remember the epic seasons like I do the bad ones. Like last year, it stopped snowing on February 21. I remember that. Probably because of all the bitching.”

Or maybe in an huge season, what really matters most is the collective good mood. In a ski town, where everybody kinda sorta knows everybody else, small talk is so much easier when it’s puking. “Been gettin’ out?” “Every day.” “Crazy season, huh?” “Keep it comin’!” And you’re outta there. Wham, bam, see you on the tram.

Or maybe a great season has a more subconscious effect. Generally, the more years you spend in the mountains, the more your ski pass hangs from your review mirror rather than around your neck, thanks to mortgages, 401Ks, and credit card bills. But as snow piles up, it smoothes out the mind’s bumps and ruts, just as it does on the ski hill. It muffles the disquiet in your jaded, ski bum soul. You remember why you came to the mountains in the first place – to play hooky. The joy of a great season is the joy of getting up on a Monday after skiing all weekend, looking the world straight in the eye and saying, “Can’t do it today. I’m going skiing.”