My snow skis were calling me the other day. Actually, they fell out from behind the water ski and landed me a blow to the forehead as I was heading out on the lake to play. It’s a winter wake up call!
Soon the H20 ski would soon be under the bed collecting dust while they (my Salomon X Screams) would be ripping down the Light Towers at Squaw Valley, Mother Nature willing, of course. While I had hoped that they would have developed a nice rapport over the summer, it seems clear that some animosity had developed between the winter and summer varieties of skis. My guess is that the snow skis had had enough, and decided to remind us that each day is getting a little cooler and that the curtain is quickly setting on the summer of 2000.
It was meant to be the first sign of the changing of seasons, when the mountain bike, ski boat, tent and all the other summer gear that I get a monthly bill for will give way to Sorrell’s, ski equipment, snow shovels and ice scrapers. The thought sent a chill up my spine as I jammed a lime into a bottle of Corona while hanging out at the beach later that day. Even worse, a quick glance at the calendar this morning confirmed my suspicions – winter is just a couple months (or even weeks) .
As I regained consciousness and got up off the floor, I contemplated how the summer could have sneaked by so fast. Where did the time go? How could the leaves be starting to change colors? How soon will I lose my tan? Needless to say, I had some big issues on my mind.
But then I started to think about those epic powder days that make you forget summer ever existed. Then I remembered the bad days on the slopes that were still 100 times better than any day in the office. Soon after, I started pulling out gear, checking out the condition of my skis and boots and trying on clothes and assorted equipment. “Okay, this isn’t so bad,” I thought. Then I remembered why I moved to Lake Tahoe in the first place – it was for winter, not the non- (snow) skiing months. In reality, June through October only separated the end of one ski season from the beginning of the next. Who needs summer anyways? I live in the mountains, not at the beach.
That brings me to my current state of being: ski gear strewn about the room, dressed in winter clothes like a ten-year old kid going out to build a snowman, and wondering why the hell I’m sitting hear hot, sweaty and typing on the computer when the lake looks so good. It is still September, Tahoe’s best month. Think, I’ll take that H20 ski out for a spin. The X Screams will just have to be patient and wait their turn.