This Fake Christmas fable finds an Idaho family hard at work in the beginning of the season, the only season that matters, snow season. The setting is Sun Valley, Idaho which was voted the best place in the world by many kings, queens, and cows. The time is Fake Christmas.
Before i begin, you must know that Sun Valley made a deal with the devil (allowing many bike trails that would ruin legendary classic ski runs forever) in exchange, they got a ton of early season snow. That's how magic works.
Now this next part of the story has been done again and again- it was probably done best by bill murray. bill murray is the best at everything. But, i digress. In this case, these are true events that you should take to heart.
For some reason the ghost of skiing past visited the samoan first. Perhaps she dug up some of his grave when she ate it in the new Frenchman glades. The ghost of skiing past rose from the powder and immediately went into a furious rant; he went on and on about bike trails ruining his sacred ground. Redemptions must be made. The samoan agreed, but alas, how could she help? She was a flatlander now, living in Brooklyn. She only spent 30 days at Sun Valley a year. The ghost of skiing past agreed she was worthless and poofed off into the air.
The samoan tucked that experience in the back of her mind for her to remember later and side powder slashing ensued with her dad, the giant, and lil bro. Proper bumps were had by all- Limelight, Holiday, and Rock Garden laps complete with top tacos. They finished with some beer at Averell's, where they cook fancy food on a hot plate. Just like prison.
That night after much pizza and Grumpy's schooners, the samoan and the giant were watching Sun Valley Serenade. Sun Valley Serenade is the only thing that anyone is allowed to watch while staying at Sun Valley. It's an Idaho law. All of a sudden, they were sucked into the movie. They were black and white! The ghost of skiing past was there! The ghost explained that he was there to haunt them with the past. It was fantastic! They skied on massive planks of wood down Roundhouse slope and Exhibition. Well really, they fell a lot and Gaped about (skis really were just planks of wood) but it was still fantastic. Exi was a dream. "Why would you cut up that run with bike trails?" wailed the ghost of skiing past. The giant and samoan somberly agreed. They woke up the next morning bruised and battered but refreshed from their amazing journey to the black and white past.
Then because it was the season of Fake Christmas, a miracle happened. The ski patrol opened the bowls on Tuesday. Just for one day. They said it was a gift to the locals. Really, I heard from a secret source that the head of ski patrol is obsessed with IloveMakonnen and his Tuesday song featuring Drake and insisted on opening the bowls so he could have "the bowls going off on a Tues." Anyway, the bowl monsters were out, gorging it up. lil bro and marky mark did like 10,000 laps while the giant and samoan struggled with their fatness and inability to breathe. Yet, it was the most jubilant of days. What a treat to be back in bowl land with not a groomed run to be had. The experience was spiritual- the top of Easter through the crack in the universe was akin to entering heaven.
During second dinner at Rickshaw (first dinner being a fowl burger at Grumpy's), the giant and samoan told of their time in the TV. The samoan's dad reminded her of her inability to remember things properly. In other words, they didn't believe.
Wednesday morning brought blankat to join in on the shredding of the gnar. She believed the giant and samoans' story and told them of this dickens dude who wrote about the same kinda thing. It's time for the ghost of skiing present she told them. "Whoa bra, called that one," said the park rat ghost of steezing present as he dropped in on Christmas Ridge. "Can't show you stuff right now amigos, I'll be back after i hits dat Dollar doe."
el squat arrived that night for the sushi-in-a-small-room-eating-contest. By now the family could only talk of the ghosts. They knew they were involved in something special. What will the park rat ghost of steezing present bring, they wondered.
The next morning as they dropped into Central Park the ghost appeared. "Damn gophers" he yelled. Everyone was confused by this, but thought it must be typical park rat slang. Wait! What had happened to Central Park!? It had been trounced. It had been walloped. It had been mauled. The giant was devastated; one of his favorite runs had been hacked up with bike troughs. "Maybe it will be fun, like a mini park," the samoan suggested. "Naw, these trenches are gnarly- and not in a good way" the park rat ghost of steezing present moaned. "Great big globs of greasy grimy gopher guts" (quoting bill murray - of course - Caddyshack). Then the ghost melted away.
That night, there was much discussion about the bike trails. Where they being punished for their sins? Wasn't there somewhere else they could gopher? What this some sort of sick joke?
On Friday, the day of the fish, the bowls were opened for the season. The swimming ensued. There was more snow, and el squat and the samoan were ever so happy to ride together again. They found and devoured many delicious delicacies & spent run after run doing the funky cold medina. They did all of their favorite, Dogs On Fire even though it wasn't quite ready. Rock riding is an acquired taste. They celebrated their few bottom scrapes. Suddenly, they were inhaled into a snow tornado.
The whole family found themselves on top of Baldy. Perhaps it was day, or perhaps it was night, there was a strange hazy glow. A mechanical figure emerged though the glow. His skis seemed to be part of his legs and his poles were attached to his hands. "We ski now" the ghost of skiing future ordered. As the family looked down they realized that their skis and boards were also attached to their legs. Surprisingly, the equipment was moving on its own. The family found themselves doing these crude, unimaginative turns. Everyone was forced to turn in the same way. They made their programed turns down Ridge and onto Rock Garden, but Rock Garden wasn't Rock Garden. It was just one huge trench that they all rode in the exact same way. They headed to Exi and to their horror, they saw the same trenches looming. Gone was the sweet uninterrupted pitch, full of different lines, all for your choosing. They made identical robotic turns within the entrenchments. Tears sprung out of lil bros eyes. Soon everyone was crying, this wasn't skiing. They were stuck on a singular track of horror, like at the fair. As they headed down Old Olympic in the same ruts, the travesty of the mere bike runs was too hard to bear. There was no other choice. They took each others poles and committed harikari.
Now to those of you weeping while reading this tragedy, remember the bike gashes haven't been forced on your favorite runs yet. The future can be changed, riding on the snow doesn't have to become mechanical and uninspired. Please contact Sun Valley and plead with them not to add these future bike paths and wreck the majestic, first ski resort of America.
Written by Preachy McPreacherson