Twas the Night Before Christmas: Aspen Snowmass Style

 

For those not familiar with some skiing terms

-bomb = ski fast

-microwave = very shiny ski outfit (check out microwaves of Aspen Instagram account for a good laugh

-tele = abbr for telemarking (free-heal skiing)

-6-pack is not only the showing of abdominal muscles, but a chair lift that holds 6 people

-schussing = another word for skiing

-C-punched = ski down the center

-kicker = jump

Twas the Night Before Christmas, Aspen-Snowmass Style

Twas the night before Christmas when all through Snowmass,

A blizzard was raging, it flew down from the pass.

The collective was sanitized with the greatest of care

In hopes all the elves soon would be there.

The lights in the selfie-den illuminated such style,

And cameras were at the ready to capture every smile.

Irresistible smells wafted from the plates of Mix Six,

And drinks from moxie bar were ready for a cold night’s fix.

The ice on the skate rink shimmered from a fresh buff,

While the game room sat waiting for the sporty and tough.

And ‘Lisha in her fleece, and I in my goose down,

Were about to clock-out after completing our last roun’.

When out by the gondola there arose such a clatter,

I sprinted up the stairs to see what was the matter.

I pushed open the doors like an angry brown bear,

And nearly choked on the frosty and oh so frigid air.

Christmas lights shining through powder laden trees,

Softly lit the plaza, adding a sparkle to my skis.

When what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a gleaming snowcat piled high with ski gear.

With a little old driver so lively and gleesome,

I knew in an instant it was Santa the ski bum!

He pulled out a map and pointed to a run,

“I can’t wait to bomb this, it’s gonna be fun!

How ‘bout Ruthie’s or Walsh’s, Sneaky’s or Free Fall?

I’ll try Tiehack or Teaser, Kesslers or Big Wall

To the top of the lift, to the top of the peak,

Ski the trees, the chutes, and the pow, ‘til you’re weak”

As snowflakes that before a blizzard do fly,

When they meet with the jet stream, mount up to the sky.

So up to chair 2 the snowcat did skid,

And out jumped St. Nick as though he were a kid.

And then in a twinkling, I heard on the run,

The laughing and giggling of that chubby ski bum.

As I peered up the slope and was turning around,

Down the moguls came St. Nick, hardly touching the ground.

He was dressed as a microwave from his head to his toe,

All in great effort to keep out the snow.

An avalanche kit he had flung on his back,

And a cookie or two stuffed deep in his pack.

His eyes—how they twinkled, that gleam—how merry,

Despite being masked up, he was the farthest from scary.

His long, wavy hair peeked out through a beanie,

His après ski beverage, surely a martini.

Slightly bent poles he held tight in his mitts,

With freshies below how did he control his wits?

He had a broad face and a little round belly,

The result of too much beer and giving up tele.

The closest he would get to approaching a six-pack,

Would be the big burn lift, way out in the back

His turns were so fluid, his style top shelf,

And I clapped and I “whooped” in spite of myself.

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,

Told me he was jonesing to get out and shred.

He spoke not a word, but pointed straight down the hill,

And soon he was schussing with incredible skill.

Champagne powder flew straight in his face,

As he navigated the terrain of this magical place.

He C-punched a bowl, then glided through glades,

And found powder pillows near the frozen cascades.

He lined up a kicker and picked up his pace,

And he sailed high in the air, zooming towards space.

But I heard him exclaim ere he flew out of sight,

“Corona virus sucks, please mask up tonight!”

[Happy Christmas to all, and please mask up tonight]