I had started putting the ski gear away Sunday afternoon following the traditional closing day lunch at Deer Valley. The group was somewhat scattered this year, out of town, family obligations on Easter. Father Bob had to work. So it was a smaller season-ender than we usually have, but a great reminder that superb friendship can overcome a mediocre snowpack every time.
But Monday was closing day at Park City Mountain, and it was a beautiful day. I got coaxed out for one more shot, and it was well worth it. I love spring skiing, and this winter has offered more spring-like conditions than normal. Conditions were really good. They had perfectly groomed a few runs, and we followed the sun around until it got too soft. It was a great last day.
On each lift, really almost every run, we all noticed a man skiing with his two kids. The son seemed to be about 8 or 10, a very solid skier. The daughter, who couldn’t have been more than 5, was ripping it up in fine style.
Dressed in a wild colored tutu, suitably princess-colored coat and full princess tira on her helmet, she was ripping through moguls I didn’t even consider. She was taking big air where ever there was a drop, sticking the landing, then spinning around and gliding down the groomers backwards. Giggling.
I wish I could ski like that. She’s not old enough for the 2034 Olympics, but I’d bet on a medal in 2038. Watching her was the embodiment of joy. What a perfect way to wrap it up. Skiing is joy, and Zen, and a giggling 5-year-old fairy princess outskiing almost everybody on the mountain.
Once I got home, the serious business of mucking out the car got started. Nobody really knows where COVID began, but if there is a new outbreak of something awful this week, I suspect the wad of tin foil sandwich wrapping I found under the seat of my car may be ground zero.
As best I could tell (and I didn’t want to investigate too closely), it was the remains of a meatball sandwich that exploded on the way home one day. It all got wrapped up in foil and through a combination of freezing, dehydrating, mumification, and baking, had morphed into some alien life form.
I live on a dirt road, and when I climb out to get the mail, there’s a lot of mud that gets tracked in. A couple of wet, muddy dogs, the detritus of too many morning doughnuts and after-ski lunches in the car, and just the general grit of life, and, well, this is why we can’t have nice things.
That happens every year, but the meatball discovery was a new low. So for a few days, the car will sit in the driveway with the windows down before maybe going to a detailer for a good detox. I haven’t ruled out exorcism.
One step in the process was applying a new layer of duct tape to the torn front seat cushion. Normally, the duct tape would have been on my ski pants, but I broke down and replaced them this year, so they have a few battle scars, but nothing in need of taping.
The Subaru, on the other hand, is largely held together with duct tape. As we say on the ranch, if profanity doesn’t fix it, there’s a roll of duct tape in the truck.
I’ve never known what the correct protocol is for washing ski clothes with duct tape repairs on them. Leave the tape on? Take if off? It never comes off cleanly, and sometimes makes the tear worse, but it also sort of fails in the washer. I generally settled on leaving it on, then putting a fresh layer over it.
The seat of the Subaru is now multi-layered, though I was able to get a pretty good color match and it doesn’t look bad. When I’m sitting on top of it.
Later, I read Matt Lindon’s piece on duct tape in last Saturday’s paper. It is an underserved honor to be mentioned in the same sentence as the venerable Haney, but we are all proud members of the Order of Duct Tape. There’s just something right about standing in a lift line next to a fully be-Gorsuched tourist wearing $10,000 in ski clothes, while sporting a 6-inch strip of duct tape on your sleeve.
The changes in town are overwhelming, often depressing, and not slowing down at all. The special sense of place is being diluted by generic development that could be anywhere. It’s no longer what drew me here, but the thought of leaving is impossible. Not when you can spend a day watching a 5-year old princess skiing like an Olympian and ski with people you’ve known for 30 or 40 years.
We have a couple of relatively quiet months now in our shrinking shoulder season. It’s our town again. Savor it, love it, invite the neighbors over, and get out there on the trails. And just in case, keep the duct tape handy. Wear it like a local.
Tom Clyde practiced law in Park City for many years. He lives on a working ranch in Woodland and has been writing this column since 1986.
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