I had a half-formed idea about posting on my undying hatred for Christmas last week. Then I got caught up with an article on the awesomest Christmas movie ever, and then I thought about the fact that I’m really trying my damnedest to keep my opinions on non-outdoorsy or Rocky Mountain state-centered matters off this blog (although expect a post from me next year about National Jewish Ski Day, a.k.a. the proper way to celebrate December 25).
Instead, I have a real beef to spill here. And it is with higher powers that humans can only pretend to comprehend but can never hope to control. Yes, indeed, I am talking about the weather.
See, back in the late part of the summer, enthusiastic meteorologists talked about the great snowpack Colorado got from getting pelted with snow as a result of a La Niña year. For those who haven’t grown up hearing about misbehaving Spanish-speaking children with every weather report, that basically means the mountains got a shit ton of snow. A metric shit ton, even. Those same meteorologists were predicting that, miracle of miracles, we were going to see this same weather pattern hit the Rocky Mountain region again this winter.
Turns out they were right. Too bad they couldn’t convince that devious girl to vent her anger in the right place.
Denver’s been getting pounded. Every other week or so, sometimes multiple times in the same week, we could’ve changed the Mile High City’s official name to Poundtown (thanks, cousin Jessie’s boyfriend!). I’ve been exceedingly happy that I work from home and can get just about everything I need within walking distance as I heard cars honk and slide through the intersection next to our house.
Alas, there have been a few times where I needed to get the car out before the snow could properly melt with the next bout of seventy-degree weather (which, in this city, could be the afternoon following the storm), and last Friday was one of them. Much as I would’ve loved to convince the in-links that we couldn’t possibly get up to the mountains and that they would need to stay in their Denver hotel room while we stayed in our apartment for the whole weekend, my boyfriend convinced me it simply wasn’t going to work.
As I excavated the car from under its protective foot-thick layer of snow, I consoled myself that at least the skiing had to be pretty awesome. Denver getting a foot overnight, in usual Colorado algebra, should equal eighteen inches, maybe two feet in the mountains.
Sure enough, the foothills glittered with snow as we drove up. I held my breath. Loveland must’ve gotten two feet! Maybe two and a half!
Then we got to Georgetown.
No, that picture was not taken last summer. It was taken last week. I should’ve also asked Ethan to take a picture of the car’s cool reading of 19 degrees Fahrenheit outside, just to prove that it was winter and that this was truly an abomination.
This time last year, the ski areas I had access to on my pass were 100% open. That meant everything, including the advanced and expert terrain that requires at least four feet of coverage for safety reasons. This year, Loveland has yet to open even one advanced run, and they have the best coverage of any I-70-accessible ski area by four whole inches.
We went skiing anyway, of course. We’d hauled all our gear up and had already paid for the passes. Besides, this was the first time in three years that I’d be able to celebrate December 25 in the tradition established during my childhood (well, partially. In lieu of Chinese food, there was a ham steak. My grandmother is doubtlessly very proud), and just to prove a point, I wasn’t going to waste it. Never mind that I scraped off what little remains of my edges on rocks and endless sheets of ice.
So Santa, if you’re up there in your frozen wasteland and going out of your mind now that you have nothing to do but look at all that goddamned snow, send the excess our way. Just make sure you use that advanced delivering technology to send it to the mountains, not the city.