Sunday, January 20
Tom grabbed his snowboard, I grabbed my skis, and we went to Snowbirds. It had been in the forties last week and the snow had turned to slush. Today it was freezing. The wind was whipping. Most of the runs were sheets of ice. Snowmaking machines were blowing everywhere. The snow was weirdly sticky.
Tom and his friends hit the lodge and I found a decent run. I skied it a few times and wound up on a chairlift with three ski patrol guys. One pointed to the run I was skiing.
“That’s the only one with good snow,” he said.
“That one over there,” I said pointing. “The one with the blowers. I thought it would be good but it’s sticky.”
“Goose poop,” said the ski patrol guy. “They pump water out of the pond over there. The snow they’re blowing is full of goose poop.”
“No,” I said.
“Really. That’s why it’s sticky. Keep your mouth closed if you’re skiing over there.”