Life as a Weekend Warrior

Saturday was reflective of the new norm: wake up earlier than a work day, drink enough coffee to cause nausea and the shakes, eat a nail-ass-to-seat breakfast of brisket and eggs at the BBQ joint, hit skin track with a verging-on-too-big group of guys.

It snowed all day, it snowed all month. We caught a window of stability in the wearying avalanche cycle. We're lucky to live on the quiet side of the pass where the bottom parking lots are a quarter full on Saturdays; all the Jackson Holers are busy seeking Glory at the top. 

We climbed, descended, climbed, descended, sought mellow glades of stupid deep hippie pow, ate snow, drank whiskey, had photo shoots, heckled. Someone found a little cliff band where I could stand at the top and peer over and stop breathing and jump and land, that addictive rush. The glue on my skins gave up on the fourth climb but I was sated and merrily made it back to the car. A pub interlude came as usual, and then Tyler took me home to show me the fruits of his day: a fun jump in the plow pile at the end of our apartment complex. The neighborhood kids had discovered it and were testing their mettle and throwing partially-realized 180s. I forgot my chill, hurriedly put my boots back on, and tried to show off for a bunch of preteens. We played until dark. 

Not me but you get the idea
Pic courtesy of Dapper Dan

Some friends were hosting a birthday party for a dog so we outfitted ourselves in finery (sleeveless tees, denim) and headed to the big city (Driggs). It was a party typical of anywhere, with a keg, beer pong, loud reggae, Cards Against Humanity, but alas the guy to girl ratio hovered around 7:1. I don't envy the throngs of pleasant, mustachioed single dudes in the valley, waiting in vain for some imaginary boatload of ladies to wash up on our snowy shores. Fortunately I've had better luck than them; at this point I've found some available girls for ski dates and wine nights, to break up the monotony of the perpetual mountain town sausage fest.