It’s funny. This morning in the shower, for a brief time, my mind wasn’t clouded with thoughts of the impending settlement on the condo. In this brief respite from torture, my thoughts turned to March one year ago. You see, a group of college friends have had an annual tradition, the origins of which are shrouded in the mists of time slowly engulfing the last year of the millenium, to climb to the top of a snowcapped peak, strap wooden planks to our feet, and send ourselves plummeting down a mountain with nothing but two thin poles and the promise of soft powder to break our falls. Last year, around this time, we took a trip to Powder Mountain, and had a great time. You should check out the video I made from the photos and movies we took.
This year, however, the extreme negative cash flow expected from the imminent condo settlement (just 27 minutes away!) prompted me to abandon my plans to join this year’s trip. Chris and Katie also bailed, citing the travels to Firenza in which they are currently engaged. Alas, the trip seemed destined to never occur. Even Dave Edwards, who lives mere minutes from the proposed site, could not attend, having fractured his leg in several places in an unfortunate “sand skiing” accident. I cannot say that I remove all blame from him, as it was from his own deranged mind that sprung the idea that such an activity would actually have a possibility of not resulting in such a disabling injury.
This afternoon, I received a call from Weeks and Mike. They were standing on the top of a mountain, strapped into their skis and board, respectively, about to descend into four inches of fresh powder. They have kept the tradition alive while the rest of us let our lives get in the way, and for that I am very grateful. I hereby promise to be there next to them next year.
Right after I pay for the condo.