When you live in LA it’s easy to forget that seasons exist.
The sun is a permanent lamp post.
The sound of flip flops are ever present.
Buxom bikini babes are abound.
Many have moved here to set seasons aside.
To vow never to see a snowflake again.
I require Winter.
I need snow.
I must snowboard.
I get my fix at Mt. Baldy when there's only one day's time.
A backwoods snowstash 45 minutes from Downtown L.A.
Here there are no rules.
Your cell phone is rendered useless.
It’s my personal lift ticket to freedom.
On this day the sun is warm.
The air is clean.
The snow is soft.
It's a jean skiing day.
Our decaying chair lift sways in the breeze as aging ski bums whiz by below.
We share the mountain with 20 strangers.
We are all attracted to this mountain for similar reasons.
By end of day, we share a bond.
We tour the resort like explorers.
We slash every stash.
We Jumped every bump.
And when its done...we saddle up to the saloon.
The locals here are warm.
The beers are cold.
The burgers are even colder.
Some of the patrons have been here since the bar opened.
Something about ski culture encourages an Eleven-O-Clocktail.
Mike and I kick up our boots.
We sip on some well deserved suds.
And we gaze out on the San Bernardino Valley.
We apre’s for days like this.