I think the mountain doesn't like to be skied.
She looms ominous in the distance, filling the dark horizon, lights glowing in the clouds this fateful night. Condos and timeshares nestle into the crevices at her bottom as long trails carve up her midsection. Electric lanterns and boomed snow-makers lurk condescendingly over her God-given snows as wretched clouds of pizza-scent drift along her untamed currents, drowning balsam and fir. She takes her vengeance the only way she can, breaking heads and legs, freezing fingers and toes, holding back her snow.
No, the mountain does not like to be skied,
and that is why I will remain in the lodge.
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