It was 5:30 a.m. and I was seriously questioning my decision to meet some friends to skin up Park City Mountain. Feeling the brain fog from partying the night before, I chugged a Nespresso while gathering up some gear and false enthusiasm for the adventure.
Christmas morning hits different when you’re on your own. The house was quiet, save for the steady snorfling of my little dog asleep by the fireplace. The stockings I’d hung by the chimney with care were empty. There were no gifts underneath the little tabletop tree I’d loaded in my cart at Whole Foods.
I carefully attached my climbing skins to the bottom of my skis and stepped into my boots. The idea to cancel crossed my mind more than once as I mentally explored various excuses. I’m not feeling well. I’m running late; don’t want to hold you guys up. My dog has explosive diarrhea.
But then, I stepped out the door into the darkness, and in the glow of a streetlamp — and for the first time in weeks — there were snowflakes falling. Snow covered the sidewalk and the limbs of the little aspen by my back door. Santa really delivered the goods, I thought to myself as the caffeine kicked in.
I started to walk up 14th street, a pitch so steep, I once literally slid backwards down it on surprise black ice. Just then, a snowplow turned the corner, delivering a fresh coat of salt. There was a guy in a neon safety vest standing there when I reached the top. I said “Merry Christmas” and thanked him for being there. He was all smiley and kind, way smilier and kinder than I would be if it was my job to stand in the street on Christmas morning.
I crossed the parking lot and there were more workers in neon safety vests setting out flourescent green cones. It was quiet and empty as a church when I reached the ice rink by Cole Sport. There was a huge Christmas tree covered with snow and twinkling white lights. It was flanked by three giant, glowing snowflakes, their reflection shimmering on the wet plaza. It was beautiful. Like a tacky present you eventually put to good use.
My friends Jake and Joel caught up to me just past The Snowed Inn and slowed down to meet my pace. The three of us steadily made our way up. Jake’s friends Will and Carder eventually caught up to our group. They all waited for me, gasping for air on the steepest segment just before the last push to the angle hut.
Ripping off our skins at the top, I noticed my hangover had magically transformed into a tingly rush of endorphins. Joel produced a box of Godiva chocolates from his pack and it was the perfect Christmas carb before we all descended into the fresh snow on Treasure Hollow. At the bottom, we all decided this would be our new holiday tradition.
I walked home, changed my gear and got back to Crescent Lift just in time for some first-chair laps. I was riding up the Silver Lode lift with a gray-bearded gentleman who leaned over and asked, “Would you like a tip?”
To be honest, I answered somewhat sarcastically, “Would I like a tip? Who doesn’t?!”
But for once, my mansplainer detector was totally off. He was actually giving me a gift: Assessment was open and the pow was powing. When we reached the top, I hopped off the lift and hightailed it over to Assessment and Powder Keg for some of the sweetest first tracks of the year.
When I got back down to Silver Lode, the same guy was there and we got on the lift together. He told me his name was Ed and he was a computer geek who was thinking about retiring and taking on a second career as a ski instructor. He said he had a goal to ski 1,000 days before the Olympics came back to Park City. We nodded in agreement to the appalling failure of Vail to fairly pay its ski patrollers.
Just before we got off the lift, like a surprise Magi, Ed offered up a final pearl. “It’s never as good as you think,” he said. “And it’s never as bad as you think.”
I hurried back to Powder Keg and stood at the top of the run, the unexpected gifts of random strangers, patient friends and Santa freshies having all been revealed. I was blissfully alone, just me and a stand of pine trees pinning down the rumpled blanket of white snow. I thought about my father, who passed away the year before I moved to Park City. Always more devout to Christmas morning ski laps than church services, I felt him right there with me as I arced my first turn. And that is a gift I can open any time I want.