The Ski Journal • Volume 16, Issue 3 • LIKE CHRISTMAS

Brandon Ott finds Christmas magic in Big Cottonwood Canyon, UT. Photo: Chris Pearson

I woke to avalanche cannons blasting on Christmas morning and felt strangely out of place. Bill had headed off to work without waking me. I’d grown accustomed to his snoring. Without it, the silence, broken every few minutes by booming explosions, seemed vast. The falling snow muted the light, dulling it into a far more soothing white than the sunlight that usually flooded in each morning.

A faint outline of the mountain disappeared into the curtain of snow. Infinite flakes, smaller than usual, floated to the ground as if in slow motion. I stood there in awe for a minute before getting dressed for work. I hoped that none of us would have to teach. This endless powder would be my Christmas present.

Only six kids came for lessons. Kylie and Ryan both got classes, so I was alone with free time. The snow fell so thick that riding up the lift I couldn’t see the chair in front of me. The haul rope vanished into nothing.

The snow offered a feeling of solitude. I couldn’t see any other skiers and as far as I cared, they didn’t exist. I hot lapped the trees under Sierra all morning without seeing another person besides the lifties. I made fresh tracks every lap. The champagne powder slowed me down and my skiing style became more fluid, almost graceful. Snow burst into my face with every turn. It stuck to me and froze in my beard.

Just after noon some kids found Sierra. They were half a lap behind, on the hill when I was on the lift. I could barely see them bobbing in and out of the coldsmoke. The intense snowfall muffled their screams and laughter like a mute in a trumpet bell. I caught up to them then took off to Silver Bowl to be alone again.

I didn’t bother to go in for lunch; life was too good out there in the back bowls. This day didn’t feel like Christmas. Christmas was in Michigan. This was a gorgeous December day, but it wasn’t Christmas.

It was lonely back there but pleasant. There are no friends on a powder day anyway. Despite fogged goggles, burning thighs, and the dank smell of wet leather gloves I felt as happy and free as I could remember. I rode Mountain Chief until last chair and didn’t want to be done.

Back in the village Jingle Bell Rock played over the speakers. A bonfire burned in the middle of the plaza and flames danced in the surrounding torches. I carried my skis to McGillycuddy’s and dumped them in the snow outside.

The bar was empty except for Muppet who sat at a table watching A Christmas Story on the TV behind the bar. A small, Charlie Brown tree glowed in the corner.

“Merry Christmas!” he yelled, jumping up from his chair and running over to wrap me in a massive bear hug, lifting me off the ground.

“Doesn’t much feel like Christmas,” I said. “I need some boozy eggnog, or a beer at least.”

“Sure doesn’t,” he said, heading back behind the bar. “You’re first one away from home too?”

“My ma’s called me three times today,” he said, “crying that her baby isn’t home for Christmas.”

He poured a couple shots of peppermint schnapps. He raised his glass and said, “Here’s to Santa Claus.” We clanked them together. “And to Jesus and stuff.” We knocked our glasses on the bar top then took the shots, which tasted like candy canes but so much better.

After a while Aurelia showed up, then Bill, then Ryan and Kylie and a few lifties. Pretty soon over a dozen people, mostly employees but a few tourists, drank hot chocolate and Baileys and sang Christmas carols. Someone brought sugar cookies.

More people showed. Muppet tended bar, and he kept giving out shots and always pouring one for himself until he was by far the drunkest person there. Someone put a Santa hat on his head and he poured drinks while singing, Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer at the top of his lungs and telling girls to, “come sit on Santa’s lap.”

“Damn straight. It’s about having the greatest and grandest old time we can have on this planet while we’re here, you know,” he said, putting an arm around me. “And live it up now, brother, because it’s on to the next adventure after this one—South America for me, and hopefully for you too.”

It did sound good. Finishing one ski season just to fly south for another, but I didn’t want to think about this one ending at all. Not yet. It had just started. “Why not just live in the moment, man?” I asked. “Why do we need to think about what’s next when we’re in the middle of something right now?”

I’d been wearing my ski boots all day and after several drinks took them off, feeling good and free walking around the bar in ski socks. Kylie and I sat on bar stools looking out at the restaurant, at Ryan hitting on a middle-aged tourist woman whose husband didn’t seem to mind and at Aurelia singing Christmas carols in Spanish with several of the other South Americans in the place. Bill joined them and sang as loudly as any of them, though he didn’t particularly know the words.

“That’s a good thing,” she said. “I miss mine too, and being away will make it that much better when we go back.”

“I just don’t want you to think I’m some cold-hearted asshole who hated his life,” I said.

“I don’t think you’re cold hearted.” She smiled and offered her glass up for a cheers.

Late in the night someone brought mistletoe and hung it above the bar. Kylie kissed me on the cheek, and before I could kiss her back Muppet grabbed me and planted one on me as well. We all partied well into the night. The snow had stopped by the time we left, but it had buried my skis first.

I carried them on my shoulder and Kylie walked with my poles as we all headed back to the Block together. The walk was awkward in unbuckled ski boots and full of drinks. A layer of fresh snow covered the lake and village. Everything felt calm and silent..

Excerpted from Colin Clancy’s novel Ski Bum, published by Van Velzer Press and now available at colinclancy.net or your local mountain bookstore.

The Ski Journal - Volume 16, Issue 3

LIKE CHRISTMAS

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