I grew up with the privilege of getting to go to Snowmass, Colorado twice a year: once in the winter to ski, and again in the summer. Sometimes either, or. Which tapered off into never sometime around high school.
My grandparents had a condo there (subsequently sold because the stairs were getting a bit hard to negotiate), complete with a chandelier made of antlers, a cupboard full of boardgames, a piano, and mountain scape photographs lining the walls. The definition of cozy.
Oh, so much nostalgia:
inflatable animals in the swimming pool
sinking into the miraculous hot tub after a day of skiing
trips to the market to buy seemingly foreign things like Orangina sodas in their exotic bottles
the independence granted by the town shuttle
my Mama's mandatory blueberry bowls with breakfast
Porgy and Bess played on the top of Aspen mountain
the brown Jeep
forever associating the smell of piñon wood to the smell of Colorado
...I didn't realize I'd missed the place so much.
Over the break my Papa and Aunt were staying in the same condos for a medical conference, so when a free place to stay and free lift tickets suddenly became available, Walker and I took the opportunity and ran with it.
Plus, I know this is silly, but I always dreamt that someday I'd get to take my boyfriend toSnowmass. And that after skiing we'd go get a beer and eat pizza.
For the long road trip:
Blink 182 (sang loud and off-key with my eyes closed, I felt like I discovered eternal life truths) and The Book of Mormon soundtrack (genius).
Iphone-ing the nearest Jimmy Johns: Hays, Kansas.
The 6am mountain views on the drive home making you want to sing Hallelujah! from their sheer magnificence.
...more on magnificence, just the act of getting away and disappearing into the mountains. I feel like I'm always talking about being gobsmacked by gaining perspective in life, but it just never ceases to surprise me. What's important to me. What's not. Where I fit in the universe.
Never underestimate the power of just getting away.
Dear God, it's so much work. The ski boots alone are like these ancient torture chambers (just ask Walker, with his chronic flat feet).
But somehow so inexplicably worth it for those seconds of complete freedom, where you feel like a bird gliding down a mountain. Or when you conquer a particularly hard run (a.k.a. The Funnel) and feel on top of the world.
(I want to take a moment to thank my parents for their infinite patience in taking on the monumental task of raising kids that ski - especially in my case: I was a headache and a half).
This YouTube phenom, especially after being stuck in a gondola with the gear-obsessed, is kinda funny: Shit Skiers Say.
Have Love, Will Travel: The Black Keys.