And just like that, we reach the end of ski season. No more early mornings, no more smell of ski wax on Sunday mornings, waffles at the end of a long day. No more sound of powder crunching under my skis, which I love. No more bounce in my step when I get on the slopes. Eight months until I see another snowy peak. I can hardly believe that to be true.
Today I went to Wachusett, the old standby, the place I go when I don’t feel like getting up at 3am and spend six hours going to Vermont. It was melt down day, with the people in the weird outfits, half melted slopes and band playing Jimmy Buffet songs. In other words, heaven. I forgot how much I loved Jimmy Buffet until I heard “Wasting Away in Margarita-ville.”
Oh well. Gotta wait another 8 months to go skiing again. Until then, we can just remember it for what it was: