Words: Sakeus Bankson 2017-12-11 20:59:02
The battle starts every morning, and its severity depends upon the depth of the snow report. Other struggles will come in due time: the feverish drive to the mountain, the frantic lift-line shuffle, the race for the best stashes and features. But this is where it begins, between layers of down and cotton. And, as with Homer’s Sirens, where it could all so easily end.
The opposition can be mundane, but the most treacherous are full royalty. Queens and kings are well-equipped, their sources of origin hailing from as far as Egypt and Hungary. But it’s not their feathery, high-thread-count armament that is most deadly; it is the tenderness of their negotiation skills that fells the mightiest of heroes.
Resistance is possible. Some opt for the blinding glow of the snow report web page to rally their forces, motivated by the prophecies of long-term forecasts; others prefer the mystery of ringing the snow-phone line. Few things are more rousing than hearing 20 inches when you were expecting 2.
Yet whatever advantages you may stack in your favor, the enemy has more. When the predicted 20-inch forecast fails to materialize, an eight-inch day is hard-matched by an 8 a.m. alarm. The fight can be even harder for us early rising office jockeys, who dream of a powder day worthy of a 6:30 a.m. wakeup—until that 6:30 a.m. wakeup shatters a perfectly good Saturday morning.
Therein lies another challenge. Midweek storms make for easier first tracks, but for us weekend warriors the adversary engages in a two-prong offensive. We are not only battling the sensual touch of Egyptian fibers, or the warm, loving embrace of Hungarian waterfowl. We are turned against ourselves. Suddenly the enemy has enlisted our fellow pow-seekers into its ranks.
Sure, some are predisposed to these hours, those predawn masochists for whom the battle is already won—enjoyable, even. Others are lucky enough to have a five-minute commute, and by location alone already have the high ground. They can put off the fight until 8 a.m. or later, depending upon the sanctity of their breakfast ritual, and still make first chair.
But let’s be honest: How many of us poor soldiers have such weapons at our disposal? At that still-dark, still-cozy moment of decision, an hour-plus foray—first through ranks of ignorant automotive cavalry and then ferocious hordes of former comrades—seems near-certain suicide.
The alternatives are enticing. A relaxed brunch. A bike ride with the dog. Knocking out those chores hounding your conscience. Maybe a noon Netflix binge. Such a day could be considered a success, you think. Completely justifiable.
Easy luxury is treacherous, and no one knows luxury better than royalty.
But no, noble snow zealot. Retreat is not an option; negotiation is failure. Brandish your tools of war: the sextuple-shot cup of coffee, the premade sandwich, the shame and heckling from friends.
Most of all, remember the crippling envy that will ruin your breakfast and make every TV show seem like garbage. You’re not mad at yourself. You’re just disappointed.
So rise, rise and crawl from that down-and-cotton den of gluttony. Load your four-wheel-drive chariot, brave the journey and battle the crowds. Fight, because victory requires sacrifice, and powder freedom is never free.
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A Call to the Powder Zealots
https://digital.theskijournal.com/articles/a-call-to-the-powder-zealots