This is the summer of our discontent, and of our pent-up demand.
With the coronavirus still raging across the country, dipping into mountain towns where ski lifts abruptly shuttered weeks, maybe more, before their scheduled closings, skiers have enormous pent-up demand.
Pent-up demand for the charms of first tracks. Pent-up demand for the amiable companionship of the chairlift. For the whoosh! of skis across corduroy snow. Hell, even for the chill of a January deep freeze, even for the skid of a New England patch of blue ice, even for the days of wind and frozen rain when our extremities are soaked, our faces reddened, our hands chapped till raw.
Not in living memory have skiers’ desires been so frustrated, their dreamy spring-skiing fantasies so interrupted, their high hopes, next-season plans so uncertain. Will a second-wave COVID-19 surge endanger Thanksgiving openings? What will social distancing mean in the ski lodge? Is the stolen kiss on the chairlift a thing of the past — a gilded memory, to be sure, but one transformed into a deadly gesture?