I know what you’re thinking. It’s early in the season — very early.
You’re the only person in your circle who is even considering going skiing; the rest of them are still playing golf and hoping the warm weather holds. But not you. You’re raring to go. You hear the hillwinds swirling, you smell snow, you’ve heard that Wildcat or Killington, or maybe Stowe, maybe Bretton Woods, could be open. A run, maybe two, perhaps even four, but, still: open.
Do you go? Do you stay at home and talk about the Patriots at Dunkin’, rake the remainder of the leaves from the odd corners of the yard, put away the porch furniture, take off the bike rack? Or do you go skiing? Do you heed your inner John Muir, for are the mountains calling and you must go?
Do what you must, and if you must go, ignore the taunts of your friends, the derision of your kids, the disbelief of your spouse. But know what you will be getting, and luxuriate in its limits.