Skiing With God

By Jill Murphy Long

In Heaven, there are 8,143 ski resorts.

Ski enthusiast Joy Fleur heard rumors that Heaven offered every type of skiing ever dreamed of by its devotees: incredibly vertical terrain, VW-sized moguls, and open aspen glades. Nirvana also delivered a personal preference of weather choice every day—like brilliant blue skies, springtime sunshine, or “champagne powder”. Joy now knows these rumors to be true because she has skied all of these wintry playgrounds with God.
Skiing with God is her new day job because He had lost His enthusiasm for this fantastic sport that He created. He couldn’t find His passion on Silver Bullet Hill, at Mogul Haven, or in Nature’s Park—all perfect places for God to remember why He used to love to carve, bump, jump, and jib. However, His pre-occupation with the storms of pollution and hatred down on Earth made God a bit peevish, tired, and forgetful of what ‘pure joy’ could be—even though He also created this emotion.

Depending upon His (or Her mood) in the morning, His Holiness changed personas and ages to try and find the fun in skiing, once again. For example on the very first day, God appeared as the leader of the cavalry, dressed as a character as many skiers do at Opening Day Resort. It’s tradition.

Another time, God wore all pink, a kind of defiant, bubble gum color for a Grandma or “Glamma” as She told Joy the mature, wise women on Earth liked to be called now. Joy spent the day with a nine-year-old boy (a.k.a. God) who just wanted to run the icy bobsled track called the Death Trough and then skied with a teenaged girl that called Herself the “Hucker Queen” due to Her inclination to jump off two-hundred-fifty foot cliffs.

Part Zen, part Catholic, part fantasy, and part true, Skiing With God will keep this sport and its memories alive forever—especially when winter is months away or where snow is thousands of miles down the road.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jill Murphy Long
• Release date: Apr 27, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452497921

Jill Murphy Long

Jill Murphy Long is the author of novels and a non-fiction book series. She also writes screenplays and teaches creative writing. Since 2005, she has been a book editor and advocate for dozens of other writers to publish their books. Prior to writing books, she worked in advertising as a creative director and copywriter for several LA agencies before opening her own: The Ad Group and Murphy & Watt Advertising. Her first best-selling book, Permission to Nap, Taking Time to Restore Your Spirit received the Excellence Award, a distinguished recognition presented by the Chicago Book Clinic and the 2003 Benjamin Franklin Award by the Publishers Marketing Association. The author has appeared on CBS and Fox television stations and has been a guest on other stations throughout North America. Interviewed by NPR and other major metro radio stations, she has also been hired as a keynote speaker at symposiums, conferences, universities, libraries, and spa resorts including The Golden Door, Canyon Ranch, and Red Mountain Adventure Spa & Resort. Her other titles, Permission to Play and Permission to Party, received press coverage in: USA Today, Better Homes & Gardens, Dallas Morning News, Los Angeles Times, American West In-flight Magazine, Chicago Sun Times, EPregnancy, and the international spa magazine, Pulse, to name a few. Her books have been sold in gift catalogs and at their websites such as: Isabella, Femail Creations, Paragon, Victorian Trading Company, and Jessica’s Biscuits. Jill has e-published Skiing With God, which will soon be released as an audio book. The Conduit will also be available as an audio book in the summer 2014. When she is not writing, she’s making a movie, skiing, or cycling. To book this author for your next creative engagement, please email: [e-mail]

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Skiing With God

by Jill Murphy Long

Copyright © 2011 by Jill Murphy Long

Published by Jill Murphy-Long at Smashwords

Cover Photography by John Kelly www.jkimages.com

Skier: Matt Goodwill

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by an electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval system, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews, without permission in writing from its author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, unless specified by legal name, is entirely coincidental.

POB 770089

Steamboat Springs, CO 80477

[e-mail]

Watch for the sequels to this book:

Skiing With God, Again

Still Skiing With God

Dedication

This book is dedicated to all the skiers that I have ever met on the chairlift, on the slopes, and of course, my constant ski buddies—you know who you are—plus to those who I have yet to meet. We’ll meet soon.

Prologue

My job, if you could call it that, was to help God rediscover His passion for skiing. You see, the Big Guy had lost His enthusiasm for His once, all-time-favorite sport that He created, and couldn’t find on Silver Bullet Hill, at Mogul Haven, or in Nature’s Park—three of Heaven’s pristine 8,143 ski resorts. All perfect places to remember why She used to love to carve, jump, and jib, however, God’s pre-occupation with the storms of pollution and hatred down on Earth made Her a bit peevish, tired, and forgetful of what ‘pure joy’ could be—even though She had created this emotion, too. (And yes, I did say, She.) Remember God is all—all things, all beings and that means She could be either gender depending on Her or His mood in the morning, a fact I discovered on day two of skiing together.

During my tour of Heaven’s ski resorts, I also confirmed God’s sense of humor. His Holiness enjoyed switching His persona between male and female just to watch my reaction. For example on the very first day, God appeared as the leader of the cavalry. I should point out God came dressed as a character as many skiers do every day at Opening Day Resort. It’s tradition.

Later in the week, God showed up as a twenty-five-year-old, hot male skier. There stood a gorgeous man with long, wavy golden-brown hair. His ski jacket nicely framed His wide shoulders and His form-fitting ski pants hugged His muscular thighs that would make any woman lust for him or at least be envious of such locks. I can’t believe I described God in this manner. Luckily for me, God’s choice of attractive male personas ceased.

At The Glades, God strolled toward me as a plucky, middle-aged woman terrified, yet at the same time excited about the idea of slaloming aspen trees. Another time, I spent the day with a nine-year-old boy a.k.a. God who just wanted to conquer the icy bobsled track called, The Death Trough. On that day, His Holiness crashed over and over again.

God also decided to be a sixteen-year-old freerider, who introduced herself to me as the Hucker Queen. I renamed Her Brave Betty. It sounded better.

Needless-to-say, God always surprised me in Her abilities even though She tactfully downplayed Her talents. When I taught skiing on Earth’s spectacular mountains I did appreciate my students’ willingness to try, but I truly respected God’s attitude to go after it on any mountain, in any condition, day after day. She was such a sport. She didn’t sulk, complain, or make derogatory remarks about my favorite, winter activity.

I’ll tell you secret about Heaven: some resorts in Nirvana promised skiers perfect weather every day. Bluebird Highlands guaranteed brilliant sunshine and Powder Mountain’s steadfast clouds churned out champagne powder much to the thrill and enjoyment of all powder hounds. There were also other mountains called The Steeps and The Glades and just as they were named, offered incredibly steep terrain or open glades for great tree skiing. If the skiers on planet Earth could only imagine what awaited them up in the big place, they wouldn’t forego skiing for chores, bemoan another socked-in, gray day skiing on frozen corn snow, or grieve over closing day. If they only knew of the infinite number of places to ski up on cloud nine, they would consider the resorts on Earth practice. And if they knew, they: former downhill and slalom racers, ski instructors, the one-hundred-day-every-season devotees, weekend warriors, and even ‘newbies’ would practice in all types of weather, with and around all types of skiers, and test out new equipment every season.

I would advise the snow enthusiasts, who work fifty weeks a year in order to pay for one glorious ski week to let their boards run parallel as much as they can every possible hour while on vacation. These aficionados should crank sweeping turns where the pull of gravity bends their skis into a perfect arc. They should turn and count their turns up to eighty, ninety, or until muscle fatigue makes their legs shake. Any level of skier would be wise to catch air off little bumps like young skiers do on their way home along the edge of the catwalks. These mortals should eventually graduate to getting bigger air off hidden bumps on powder days when their landings will feel like falling onto a welcoming, soft bed covered with a goose-down comforter and loaded with overstuffed pillows. I offer these recommendations because you’ll be so glad that you did practice when you arrive at your final destination.

Why? Because you’ll want to have the confidence and courage to truly enjoy all the mind-boggling options available in this skiers’ unbelievable dreamland. In Heaven, everyone’s blessed with strong legs and extra powerful lungs, but if you don’t have the mettle accumulated from your skiing days on the terra firma, then you’ll have to spend your time up here developing this vital characteristic.

You’ll also need to pack your enthusiasm for skiing, if you still possess it. I find so many skiers leave behind such joy in life after a certain age or after the frustration of never surpassing the land of the blues, the intermediate level. I think there is a good reason these runs are called the blues. I can’t tell you the number of times a once-avid skier looks at the frozen ground, kicks a random snow cookie and confesses to me: I’m just not into skiing, anymore…

I don’t believe them and I sense that they don’t completely believe the words they just uttered either, but if no one is going to challenge them, they just might stick to their new conviction. I want to ask many of these moms and dads, who live with me in Ski Town U.S.A., What does that really mean? How can you wake up each morning and see a magnificent, snow-covered mountain, commanding admiration on every winter day and not ski? How can something that was once fun—not be fun, anymore?

God is suffering from the same dilemma.

Of course, I have thousands of ideas on how to make skiing fun and regularly make these suggestions to my friends and neighbors whose feelings oftentimes vacillate about this fantastic sport. God must have been listening because here I am skiing every day with Him—or Her.

I think God likes surprises and genuinely likes to surprise me.

God is everywhere, too. She loves to indulge in a particular unnerving trick of eavesdropping on my mental wanderings and has a habit of just showing up whenever She feels like being. Her sudden appearance beside me in the trees is especially unsettling when I’m moving at Mach four around aspens.

POOF! Down into the deep powder I tumble, much to God’s amusement. She laughs and laughs and making God laugh is always a good thing. But I’m getting ahead of my story about skiing with God.

All I can say is that I’m honored and thrilled beyond words—a tough feat to foil a writer into silence—to be skiing with God. As an added bonus, God asked me to write His skiers’ guidebook, which will be a gift presented to all incoming enthusiasts at Heaven’s frosted pearly gates. (Yes, there are grand gates and they are beautiful.)

So, if you miss skiing as much as I do as soon as the last chair stops on closing day, my book will get you through the sad sight of melting snow, the boiling days of summer, and past the autumn taunts of the coming winter until your ski mountain invites you back to play again. And if you’re visiting my stories while the white stuff falls from the Heavens above, then I hope I’ll see you on Earth’s slopes.

Let it snow! - Joy Fleur

Opening Day Resort

The funny thing about Opening Day Resort is that one hundred percent of the slopes are open, the skiing is perfect, and the resort always promotes each day as opening day.

Yes, it’s true.

Opening Day Resort is tucked away at the end of a box canyon, surrounded by scraggly peaks painted permanently white with snow. The two-lane road leading to this skiers’ Mecca meanders around farmhouses and red barns centuries old, yet still in pristine condition. Bluish shadows from the wooden posts of the three-wire fence mark the snow with a straight, long line every eight feet. I feel the urge to get out of the car and decorate the naked Christmas trees dotting the valley’s meadows.

God likes to set an appropriate ambiance for any and all experiences.

Every morning on the first day of ski season, which is truly every day at Opening Day Resort, Superman, in his red cape and blue tights, along with Wonder Woman, who also sports very patriotic and glittery colors, merrily welcomes the rowdy parade of skiers with a plastic glass of bubbly and an egg-and-cheese burrito.

Go figure, Mexican food from the all-American duo, but maybe it’s all they can cook and besides, burritos are an easy to go food. My gracious host and hostess must have risen with the sun to have this gigantic picnic scrambled, melted, and packed before seven o’clock.

For breakfast, I inhaled a glazed donut with pink, yellow, and green sprinkles and now am happy to accept a home-cooked meal. I like the fact that calories don’t count up here. You can eat whatever and whenever without further ramifications and you don’t even have to eat if you’re too busy skiing.

My driver, usually known as Antonio, is Count Dracula today, and slows our gold stretch limo for me to retrieve two breakfast treats from the passenger’s window.

Thank you. I smile at the handsome Superman.

The winsome American duo waves and calls to Antonio by name. He must be a regular on their route. I’m very new to this world having just arrived last night.

I could use some hot sauce. Antonio wiggles his furry, fake black eyebrows at me. He reaches into his glove compartment for find hot sauce stashed among his collection of compact squirt packets of ketchup, mustard, relish, and mayo. He swerves the car from one side of the lane to the other; overcorrects and bounces off the snow bank like he’s driving a bumper car at the county’s fair instead of God’s golden mobile.

I know Antonio has every condiment ever known to fast-food establishments and convenience stores, but he’s still coming up short with the right flavor at the moment. What if I take over your search? I take his hand out of box and dig.

Count Dracula removes his extra long, plastic incisors. I would like mild salsa, please.

Aren’t you Spanish?

"Sí. I just don’t like spicy."

Must be tough.

I only eat bland American foods now. He stares dreamily down the crowded road and is probably thinking of fast food, the very food I was happy to escape.

I like anything from a can, like whipped cream, Spam, especially cheese from a can. And Wonderbread. It’s nice and soft. You can poke it with your finger and it bounces back. How do they do that? Anyhow, I eat what I like now—since I can. Antonio winks at his own food secrets.

If his poor mother could only heard her son wax on so lovingly about American substances easily called food. I munch on the yummy burrito, but I’m not so sure about Antonio’s level of appreciation for this homemade meal. He would probably prefer one of those pre-packaged burritos you can buy at any gas station and nuke.

Antonio engages the automatic car pilot James to maneuver his posh vehicle in line with the other cars. This respite allows him to eat with both hands. Our vehicle follows a never-ending line of cars inching toward the majestic peak in the near distance, but no one seems to mind. Music can be heard from each vehicle including sounds from the fifties, blues, techno-dance, hip-hop, and of course, disco, which just won’t die. Some passengers roost on top their moving cars while others dance in the back of pick-up trucks.

This slower pace gives me more time to admire the cliff bands chinked with snow and that shadow the canyon road. I’m not a big fan of gray, but this slate steel color reflects a reassuring comfort throughout the valley, similar to the same feeling I’ve experienced when wrapped up in my much-loved quilt that my grandmother made for me one birthday.

As we near the entrance to the ski resort, I can see a three telly skiers skinning up the face in anticipation of being the first to descend today.

Antonio has finished his breakfast and is driving again and apparently also watching the tiny ants cut a trail north to the mountain’s pinnacle. Our stretch limo veers off the road and into the neighboring snow bank.

Oops. Sorry. He laughs. "I think those skiers that climb this mountain every day are loco en la cabeza."

He’s probably right. They probably do climb it every day and are crazy in the head to tackle such an incline when a speedy chairlift is available. As God’s designated driver, Antonio probably has seen it all—at least a couple of times. But I do share their enthusiasm about any first day of skiing. There is something about the firsts of things: the first day of school, being first in line for the annual Warren Miller movie, a pre-season ski sale, and of course, first for first tracks in fresh, deep powder.

But I’m also nervous about skiing with God for the first time, so I try to squelch my internal rumblings and pretend the growing anxiety is just excitement—or at least that’s what I tell my twisting, turning stomach to believe.

At Opening Day Resort, there are two camps to frequent this hill: the happy campers, who decorate themselves for the happy occasion, and the others, the serious skiers, who are simply religious about their sport. Many of these obsessed skiers consider the mountains with their clear, refreshing air and its natural cathedrals created by beautiful evergreens, their church and I agree. Besides, skiers are closer to God than most anywhere else on Earth, so many of these dedicated individuals appear like clockwork on every opening day in brand new ski suits and with expensive skis—or in costumes. I’ll get to describing this group in time—they need many pages…

The serious troop, however, has spent the last twelve weeks getting in shape. These diehard devotees, who now reside in Heaven, haven’t figured out that they don’t have to torture themselves with hundreds of squats and lunges in ski conditioning class. They don’t have to endure hopping down the ski ladder on one leg and then back on the other or running up concrete stadium stairs twenty times. They don’t have to do plyometrics, the extreme exercises as suggested in ski magazines for pre-conditioning that no one does alone—only in ski conditioning classes, yet these compulsive people push themselves together twice a week. I know this is happens in Heaven; I saw the class’s sign-up list. Guess the axiom, Misery loves company is well illustrated with this elective program.

I’m glad God is into skiing for its aspect of play—or at least, at one time He did feel this way about my favorite sport. After last night briefing with his Holiness, I found out now it’s my job now to help Him rediscover His passion. I only hope we can find it at one of Heaven’s 8,143 ski resorts.

I can’t believe I am truly here and skiing with God! Somebody pinch me!

Count Dracula pinches my arm.

Hey! Can you read minds?

He smiles his plastic smile and hums. The melody is his rendition of White Christmas.

Yes, I was also dreaming about a white Christmas…guess I better watch my thoughts from here on out, but know I won’t. I have what the Buddhists call a monkey mind—it flits all over the place all the time like a monkey in the jungle.

I’m also very happy God decided to create Opening Day Resort. I am one of those skiers, who cannot wait for opening day. For weeks before the first day of the ski season, I wear my ski boots around the house; try on my ski clothes to make sure everything fits and to double check what else I need to buy for the upcoming wondrous season. It’s fun; it’s my annual ritual, although many of my non-skiing friends consider my behavior borderline obsessive.

I’m sure they have their unique idiosyncrasies, too.

My fixation with skiing starts on the day after ski season closes when I begin my countdown for the next, opening day of the season: 223, 222, 221…it is surely a painfully and slow way to anticipate something you love.

Some avid skiers endure the mud season of April and May by searching out other resorts still blessed with a patch of snow here and there, and then drive miles to crank turns down it. Weak alternatives might include distractions such as busying yourself with a trip to a distant beach or escaping into a good book, but to me, and my ski friends, who are linked by our mutual love of snow, summer is simply a season to tolerate.

We believe and know that there are so many more things to do with snow than sand.

I do remember skiing Mammoth Mountain in the Sierra Nevadas one wonderful Fourth of July and rate this summer skiing experience as one of my all-time favorites on my ‘Ski Life List.’ Rumors circulating around Heaven also say God likes adventure. I like adventure, so maybe we’ll make good skiing partners. Maybe we’ll go helicopter skiing…!

Addicted diehards, who I know down on planet Earth make it a point to ski every month and this means traveling the world to accomplish such a lofty goal. I know of one particularly passionate skier, who accomplished this amazing feat with the help of his company. Since he might want to employ this perk again I cannot mention his name, but as a cargo pilot, his assignments took him all over the world and usually right around the corner from magnificent snow. I was and am still so jealous.

Other skiers without their own personal plane can pilgrimage via a car or train to Canada and take advantage of high-speed quad chairs to lift them up to their precious snow. One of these ski spots regularly redefining when winter ends and spring begins is Sunshine Village in Alberta with its white days easily extending into late May. Luckily in Colorado, we have Arapahoe Basin with its high summit elevation of 13,050 feet and its extra long season that sometimes stretches into the middle of July; I can still get my fix. Yes, I am addicted to snow.

And for those without the disposable income to travel around the globe in their search for snow, they’ll spend hours hiking the fourteeners in California or in the Colorado Rockies and ski to the bottom in much less time and sweat than it took to ascend. I know—I’ve tried it with much effort expended on the uphill trudge. Don’t listen to World Extreme Skiing Champion, Chris Davenport, who made climbing and skiing down all fifty-four, fourteeners in less than 365 days look easy—it’s not plus we all know he possesses super human lungs and legs.

A few select enthusiasts can ski the summers away below the equator. Ski bums with extra money—an oxymoron if I ever heard one—can explore the ski resort of Portillo in Chile and stay in their big yellow hotel at the base or take off for Mt. Hutt in New Zealand during August, their snowiest month. However, I know, my other less affluent skier friends, myself included, will pass August away by reading great ski books like Bode Miller’s Go Fast, Be Good, Have Fun. Picabo: Nothing to Hide or The Edge of Never by William Kerig.

On the other side of the pond, lucky French skiers can enjoy some of the best summer glacier skiing—and cycling if they want. On the sunny slopes of the Osians Valley, the Sarenne Glacier’s lifts open at 8:30 and when they are done with their turns on the snow around lunch, any Parisian can then soar down the heavenly descent of Alpe d’Huez’s notorious, twenty-one switchbacks on their bikes. The next day, these fortunate souls can head over to the neighboring Grande Motte in Tignes or Les Deux Alps to ski another summer glacier.

Upon learning this bit of ski trivia, I pouted over the fact that I never did get a chance to hook up with my friends Gary and Lise, who owned and operated a bike touring company in Europe, again, and in particular, ski and cycle in the same day. God must have eavesdropped on my pity party for He sent me a telegram telling me to keep my birthday week open. I hoped Heaven had something equivalent to the French Alps. Hurray! I can’t wait until June! However, his postscript did inform me the great Sarenne Glacier at Alpe d’Huez suspended summer skiing operations in 2007 due to the unstable conditions. Yes, in other words global warming is true and yet another headache for God. No wonder He needs to play.

For the rest of us, we can only dream of such a summer skiing holiday and usually end up paging through last season’s ski magazines while lounging in a hammock, eating vanilla ice cream to stay cool, or our riding mountain bike down a single track through a glade of aspens to simulate the sensation of skiing once again. But there is no snow, no wintry crispness in the air, and no cushion when the body falls out of the hammock or down the rock staircase on the mountain trail miles from home.

Antonio breaks my reverie and points to the entrance of town. This quaint village looks like a quintessential ski poster complete with a bell clock tower reminiscent of those found at Swiss ski resorts. Its Roman numerals show eight. I’m an hour early to ski, however, with today being opening day, I know I will enjoy the sightings of the happy campers. These skiers will be separated from the serious skiers by their outrageous dress and will parade by in their madcap persona for everyone’s enjoyment including their own.

Antonio follows the other cars into the valet circle and pauses under the resort’s welcome entrance. This black, wrought iron sign is cut with two silhouettes of each alpine animal: moose, elk, grizzly, deer, and snowshoe hare, and reads: Opening Day Resort.

Thanks for the lift, Antonio.

You look beautiful Snow Princess, he chuckles.

You still have yet to tell me why you’re dressed as Dracula.

Antonio flashes his scary incisors and pulls the starched collar of his black cape higher. I am in search of undying love.

Okay, Count Drama, see you at 4:30 with God. I exit the vehicle holding my iridescent helmet decorated with sprays of snowflakes that bounce on thin lines of jewelry wire. My silver ski gloves and sunglasses outlined with cubic zirconium studs glimmer in the morning sunlight as I head into this throng of happiness. My silver skis topped with a small tiara made of glitter on the tips are immediately whisked away by my own personal ski valet. My extra-wide, princess dress made from satin and silk snowflakes creates a personal passageway through the Elvis, Marilyn Monroe, and Donald Trump impersonators as I try to keep up with the cute valet. Are they all this handsome up here in Paradise?

Santa and his reindeers nod as I pass. Rudolph’s red nose flashes on and off in approval of my costume—I think.

This charming town lures its guests pass a gigantic, colorful candy store, an equally tempting chocolate shop, a vintage bookstore, and in front of various international eateries wafting an enticing aromas. Petite chalets constructed out of the materials collected from the nearby forest and quarry fill the second street back from the retail, cobbled walkway. Pine garlands encircle each home’s front door and new icicles reach south from the roof’s edges and sparkle.

At a walk-up window, I pause for a cup of shade-grown, organic coffee. As I wait, I wonder, What makes these people tick? Are they born, party people? How do they wake up super excited for the first day of skiing—day after day? I watch the contagious merriment of the crowd and mentally note that they certainly play the part convincingly well.

In my fancy dress and white ski boots, I walk like Frankenstein’s bride across the sundeck of the ski lodge and sit with all of my costume’s fabric in an Adirondack chair next to the outdoor fireplace. A cup of coffee warms one of my hands, and with a pen in my other, I’m ready to put all of this pandemonium down on paper. This is my second job, in addition to helping God rediscover His joy of skiing, I’ve been asked to create a guidebook for all new arrivals, who love to ski as much as I do.

I think it would be a nice gesture to add such a book to their welcoming basket. God told me last night in our meeting.

I had to agree. This creative assignment will give my brain something to do, besides second guessing everything I do and say. (Watch, you’ll see, this does happen and often inside my head.)

The party continues to unfold and I can hear their approach before I can see the decorated skiers of all ages and sizes. The boisterous crowd is lead toward the chairlift by an eight-foot tall snowman. There’s a troupe of fifteen burly ballerinas in pink tutus leaping after a fiddler who fills the crisp winter day with his festive music…I think that these dancers might indeed be men, but in spite of their girth are quite graceful—unlike myself.

NYC firefighters are engaged in a snowball fight with the LAPD. The people stuck in the middle of the snowball battlefield don’t seem to mind, thanks to a kindly group of priests and nuns holding up extra large golf umbrellas to interfere with direct hits. I’m not certain if those clothed in black and white are dressed up, or are wearing their normal clothing. This is Heaven. They chat with six disco dancers looking resplendent in their baby blue, polyester jumpsuits and black Afro wigs.

I continue to record the details of Opening Day Resort, its attendees and their costumes: a black woman is dressed as a hula girl complete with grass skirt and coconut shells—isn’t she cold? Maybe she’s wearing a flesh-colored body suit that I can’t detect from my distant vantage point. Beside her is a petite woman costumed as a flamingo in pink tights with pink spiked hair who is leaning dangerously close to the mouth of a grizzly bear in an attempt to hear any words coming from his imposing fur head. The Statue of Liberty marches by, regal in her green-and-copper patina gown (her face and hair are also painted the same color) Next, a group of female skiers wearing flannel nightgowns with a tall, lanky guy in a red Union Jack one-piece suit trail clutching bowls of popcorn and fat pillows. Are they a slumber party? They must be good skiers, so not to need their ski poles—or maybe they carry pillows to cushion their falls when they do tip over.

A raucous group of college students shouldering fifty-gallon industrial, cardboard drums cluster together as a six-pack of generic beer. Since their arms are tucked inside, there are no poles for them either. I hope they don’t fall down the hill because they would just roll and roll to the very end. How they will sit on the chairlifts? I guess they’ll have to take the tram, provided there’s enough space, but I’m positive the others skiers will make room for the beer.

I spy teams of club bowlers in retro shirts winging plastic black bowling balls across the snow. They have used their ski poles to create the pins and