Swift skiers and stylish
snowboarders rode the soaring ski lift up the majestic mountain, eager to speed
down the mountain’s shining snow. Cheers occasionally rose up from those
already breezing down the slopes, their skis and snowboards scraping over the
snowpack both close to and far from the ski lifts and their clunking cycles of
noise. Constant chatter arose from the friends and strangers on the lifts in
anticipation of their next run down the mountain, and the few birds in the sky
made their presence known with infrequent cawing.
At the
bottom of the slopes, the sweet scent of sizzling burgers and the odor of bodies
sweating under the many layers of clothing used to keep warm cut through the
cold, fresh mountain air, already polluted by the overly strong perfume some
overly-large lady was wearing. The sharp smell of burning rubber wafted over
from the parking lot, where the idiot driving too fast had slammed on his
brakes to avoid colliding with the fool not paying attention to where he was
going.
The
guests savored the smooth flavor of their chosen sodas, the Swiss cheese on the
perfectly grilled burgers, and the rich, meaty hotdogs coated in their favorite
toppings while their children’s mouths watered in anticipation of the chocolaty
soft serve ice cream promised to them.
Looking
out over this I longed for the summer days, just as busy but far warmer, when I
worked on one of those lifts, putting sleds and guests, bikes and Digglers on
to the chairs and giving the necessary instructions for maximum safety and
enjoyment. I longed for the feel of the wind in my hair, my woven hat around
the control lever in my hands, my jacket flapping in the wind, and the rough
surface of the alpine slide when I climbed out at the bottom. I even longed for
the weight of the sleds I constantly lifted onto and off of the lift.
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