109- The Moose Jaw- The Ending to White Dreams ( Young Adult Version Of The Lure Of The Mountain King, Uncle Albert's Mountain}

There have been many endings over the years. Leaving the mountain alone has always been my favorite, but as the the years have progressed I have experimented with Tom and Sara being together in some form. Since I had always wanted this to be a young adult work my first go at togetherness was for simplicity. I published it in May of 2022 but then deleted it. I once again offer it up in it's simplicity. Which one is better is for you the reader to decide.

                                                     The Moose Jaw

 

 

       Sara was sitting at the end of the bar. She was unconsciously twisting the end of her auburn hair, between her thumb and forefinger. Her head buried in a novel, reading short stories and good writing was her favorite pastime. There were only a handful of customers this afternoon. The season had ended and business would be slow until autumn winds brought another winter to the Rocky Mountains. A new song drifted over the sound system. The front door slowly opened and a black Stetson appeared. Sara felt her body involuntarily shiver. She quickly buried her head back into her book,

     “When are you going to wake up?” Sara said to herself. “You can’t hide from the world forever.”

She stared blankly at the pages. Lifting her hands she turned them upright, they were covered with black smudge marks from the print. She realized that was exactly what she was doing. Hiding from Tom and hiding from herself. Year after year she sat with her books. She listened to others talk of their adventures. Standing at the bar mixing their drinks and collecting their spare change. Spare change to make her ends meet. Always buried in another book, she thought she would probably grow old and grey with a book in her hands.

     “Hi,” he said cautiously. He was hoping it would go well. She had this incredible knack for avoiding him.

     “Hi,” she smiled radiantly. Sara’s eyes softened as they met his. She jumped off her chair and ran to him. She grasped his hand and held tightly to his big fingers.

     ”I’m sorry this all happened. I was wrong to try and force you into something you weren’t ready for. If nothing else you taught me the value of freedom and the courage to spend it"

Tom looked deeply into her eyes.

     “No, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I can’t settle in one place. My first reaction to life is to bolt when things get tough, to run away instead of fighting. I want to be with you, without you I’ll probably always be a drifter. You are the only stability I’ve ever known.”

He saw the same spark that was there the first time they had met. It had never left, even when he thought it would never return.

     “Listen, I can’t explain my feelings, when I’m near you. I’m trying to find the words to explain how much I care. It’s just that I’ve got this crazy dream. Maybe I can make a difference. Maybe I can -----.”

She gently put her fingers to his lips.

     “I’ll make you a deal. No more talk of commitment. You give me a taste of real freedom.”

He loosened the straps of his knapsack and slid his arm around her waist. He slapped his hand on the bar.

     “There’s this little saloon in Targhee called ‘Wild Bills’,” he scratched the stubble on his chin. “You could work on the mountain with me and learn to ski or tend bar there.”

     “Only if you shave,” she laughed wrapping her arms tightly around his neck.

Tom gently pulled her closer. He felt the warmth of her body next to his. He knew it was right. He would give her everything possible for him to give. Sara was the serenity he found among the jagged peaks. It was meant to last forever. The balance between man and nature in the mountains is fragile and extremely delicate. Life hangs precariously by a taught golden string, stretched sometimes almost to the breaking point. A balance that was as tender and tight as that between a man and a woman. Tom always pushed toward the edge. Someday he would push too far. He would regret many things in his life. He would never regret giving his love to Sara.

     “No promises.”

     “No promise,” he agreed.

She tore off her apron, and threw it behind the bar. She grabbed her blue knapsack and stuffed her book into it. Pulling on her ski jacket, she flipped her hair outside. It would be an exciting change for her. They started for the entrance.

     “Hey Sara, How about another?” one of the customers yelled.

She turned gracefully, her hair flowing in a wide arc. It gently came to rest, tight under her chin. Tom waited his throat dry. He watched every move she made.

Sara glanced back at him. She carefully studied his features cautiously for a sign, any answer. Tom said nothing.

Sara turned and reached for Tom’s hand. They walked out the door.

     “What’s Targhee like?” she said.

     “I’ll show you,” he replied.

The Ring Song, Jaya Sia Ram, Krishjna Das, Flow Of Grace

78 - Where is Jackson Hole? The Last Sweep

                        

                                                            

For Ed Cox

"The Bucklemeister"

Thank You for the Western Trip In your

Volkswagen Bus to the Mountains of Colorado, Utah,

and Wyoming. I never really came back.

                                                           The Last Sweep

                                                          Albert Bianchine

     Tom Dillon skied up to the Plateau and rested his weight on his poles. He glanced out across the Teton Village, Jackson Lake, the National Elk Refuge, and the Hog Backs. Kicking down hard on the edge of his skis, he stepped out of his bindings. He flexed forward in his boots and felt the familiar ease of pressure on his shins. Standing erect, he reached up and loosened the straps of his backpack. He tossed it into the freshly fallen powder. The crystals whooshed in a billowy cloud as it hit the ground. Tom reached down and scooped up a large armful between his gloved hands and parka. He blew strongly on the crystals and watched them dissipate into the dry, crisp, Wyoming air.

     “Yi Ha!” he yelled heartily, his smile as big as the Grand Tetons themselves.

     How many fresh powder turns had he taken? How many deep, waist deep, chest deep, turns had he taken? How many endless, agonizing, thigh burning powder turns, until his life had become one long powder turn? The American Mountains didn’t hold much allure to him anymore. He thought he might try Europe next. There were no more frontiers.

     Tom thrived on the challenge of conquering nature. The chance of ultimate defeat, like jumping into Corbet’s Couloir. He had traded away security for the thrill of the moment his entire life. The greatest moments were the ones that no one else but he knew about, like the thrill of the high traverse across Alta, Utah. The heavy morning fog hanging low and the snow blowing freezing your eyelids shut. The smell of ozone in the air, the hair on your neck standing with static electricity and fear of lightning with nowhere to hide, your right leg clamped securely clutching the track, your breath coming in short gasps knowing full well that to catch your left tip in the crud would send you careening downhill into the rocks and certain death below. The urgent need to be off the top, traversing, endlessly traversing, toward Eagle’s Nest, desperately searching just barely able to make out the small wooden sign, “Expert’s Only! No Easy Out!” Traversing and waiting, waiting for the fog to burn off, and the heavy snow to dissipate, catching your breath at the first glimpse of the blue, blue skies and deep powder and steep, ever so steep sides of Little Cottonwood Canyon. 

     Staring out across the sharp jaggedness of the Grand Tetons, he took a deep fresh breath of mountain air. He was glad that he hadn’t traded away one moment of his youth spent on mountains. His nostrils flared as the breeze sent mounds of snow sloughing from the boughs, instinctively, he jerked his head upright at the hooting and hollering as his friends came crashing through the evergreens.

     Touloose, The Captain, and Fast Eddy, the Bucklemeister, skied up to the plateau.

     “Hey! Touloose, what took you so long?”

     “It was the Captain, Tom, ya know em he got too close to an evergreen and got sucked into a well.”

     “Got in pretty deep?”

     “Up to his ears, right up to his ears,” he cackled. He reached up and pulled his Sherpa hat from his head.

     “Aaayuh!, Aaayuh!, Aaayuh! Life’s a beautiful thing here in the mountains,” the Captain’s irrepressible smile greeted Tom. “Life’s a beautiful thing.”

     He pulled his glasses free from his face, reached in his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. He began wiping them dry. Walking up close to Tom, he stuck his face right up to Tom’s.

     “I can’t see ya without me eyes. Let me tell ya something sonny,” his voice lowered to a whisper. “It’s a reaaal funny thing about them snow snakes ya get a little too close to those pits and they reach up and grab the tips of your skis. They suck ya right down into the pit.” He grabbed Tom and wrestled him to the ground laughing and rolling in the snow.

     “Great Run!, Great Run!” Eddy said breathlessly.

     “Let’s start the fire.”

     They all walked out on the plateau and began picking up rocks, and driftwood.

     Tom bent down over his backpack and pulled out several pre-wrapped steaks, onions and potatoes.

     “Touloose, start the fire,” Tom said.

      He walked across the snow, his mountaineering boots leaving deep impressions in the snow. He bent down over his pack, reached in and extracted a small vial of clear liquid. Walking over to the fire pit, he unscrewed the top and poured it on the wood. Extracting a slim red metal container from the pocket of his bibs, he opened it.  Scratching the striker across the flint, he stepped back as the sparks hit the kindling. A small flame flickered on the damp wood. A wry smile spread across his face. A loud wumph, followed immediately by roaring flames drove him back from the circle of stones. The long fingers of flames, orange and glowing brightly reached up and snapped at the crisp Wyoming sky.

     “Works every time,” he smiled smugly, “a little aviation fuel out of the silver streak, my BMW motorcycle.”

     The men instinctively moved closer to the fire, pulling off their gloves and warming their hands over the flames. They all chuckled.

     “Did ya hear about Tuckerman’s Ravine last year Tom?” Eddie asked.

     “No, I didn’t, how was the headwall?”

     Eddie laughed.

     “Pure disaster,” he said.

     

     He reached over and placed a collapsible metal screen wrapped with foil over the fire and set the food on it to cook.

     “Bad trip in? Bad trip up? It’s been years since I’ve been to the ravine, but I still love it. It reminds me of Mt. Baldy at Alta, that is the steepness, I mean. People out West don’t think there’s any radical terrain in the East. Sometimes I think powder is for pussies, it takes a real man to ski Tuckerman’s covered in blue ice,” Tom expounded.

     Eddy adjusted his glasses and bent down close to the fire.

     “A little bit of both, a little bit of both.”

     He looked over at the Captain and he smiled sheepishly.

     “Well to start with,” he began, “ We were packing for the trip and we bought frozen dried foods, to keep our packs light. That is all of us cept the Captain, it seems that the Captain had to have large cans of stew, soup, and those little white potatoes.”

     “Jesus,” Tom said, “ How much did his pack weigh, that’s a very long hike in.”

     “It was heavy, believe me,” said the Captain, “damn heavy.”

     Tom burst out laughing.

     “Well anyway,” Eddie continued, “it seems we started into the Ravine, and we're hiking for a while, when the Captain here starts to sit down. He starts complaining like an old woman, moaning and complaining, just like an old woman, tossing out cans of stew, soup, and potatoes, huffing, puffing, and complaining about the cans that we would have to split and pack out! He complained all the way into the ravine about the weight of his pack.”

     “That true Captain, what he’s saying?”

     “It be true”

     “It’s just the beginning, Tom,” Eddy continued.

     “Once we got into the lean-to, we met some Canadian climber’s, and started partying with them. They had brought Ouzo and we got pretty smashed. I started feeling dizzy, so I went inside and slipped into my mummy bag and zipped it up tight. Started to doze off, when all of a sudden I got the chills and began getting sick.”

     He paused and reached up and turned the steaks, the fire crackling and sizzling with the dripping grease.

     “Anyway like I said, I started getting real sick, and I was pretty hammered. But my zipper was broken, I was clawing and scratching like hell, but damn if I could get that bag unzipped. Here I am, I got the chills, I’m plastered drunk on Ouzo, I’m zipped to my throat in my mummy bag, and I’m getting sicker and I can't get the bag unzipped. I’m like a cat trying to claw my way out of a sack.” 

     “What happened?”

     “Well nature took care of it, I just rolled down over and out of the lean-to, and puked my guts out!”

     They all burst into laughter.

     “Sounds like a real bad one. How was the skiing?”

     “Awesome Tom, Awesome, you know the wall.”

     “Foods ready,” Touloose yelled. “Hey, Tom.”

     “Yeah.”

     “Did the Captain tell ya how he came to be married?”

     “No, No,” Tom replied.

     “Look, don't start this,” the Captain said.

     “Yeah come on tell me, I want to hear this.”

     “Yeah tell us,” Eddie chimed in.

     “Well the other day out of the blue, the Captain says, Touloose , don't ever get married. So I ask him why? If you hate it so much, why did you do it?”

     “She made me do it,” he whined.

     They all sat down around the fire chuckling. They looked out across the piney rock ledges of the Tetons, across the fenced ranch lands, the silver sagebrush, to the blue, deep dark shimmering blue of Jackson Lake, under the marine blue of the pristine Wyoming sky with the Hogbacks darkening purple in the waning sun.  In the town of Jackson, the sun flashed and glinted off the windshield of an old pickup truck. The cold began to settle into the trees. The ivory crystals started hardening. Far up, very far up on the hill just above timberline, above the lichen encrusted rock ledges, just below the little red tram with Jackson Hole lettered in white on its side. The Ski Patrol began descending among the evergreens. The eerie silence was split momentarily by the solitary cry, “Laaaaaaaast Sweeeeeeeep!!! Laaaaaaaast Sweeeeeep!!!"

The Sounds of Silence, Simon and Garfunkel

Wild Horses

    Wyoming, early morning prairie dews
seep deep enough, pooling and reflecting
a wild chestnut stallion's eyes.

His hooves kicking pebbles rippling
little waves, flowing and trickling in to streams
of mirages dissipating into noon day vapors
and pastured greens of rattle snake plains.
Today's Song
"Wild Horses," Rolling Stones

Relativity of Time

 

The phrase that time is relative has never escaped me. I always knew that as a young man that time was the here and now. The book for my generation that was the rage was "Be Here Now," by Ram Dass. It reverberated with the message of the times. You know all the Sha-la-la-la live for todayer's. I was one of them. You guessed it a hippie. Of course I had long hair and a beard. My little sister was kind enough to put my hair into tight braids, so that when I took them out it made my hair frizz out and it looked good with my big gold ring in my ear. Yep! That was me the cool cat, or at least I thought I was in my mind. After all, I watched Doby Gillis and thought Maynard G. Grebbs was cool. I may have even bought a set of bongo's. However I learned early in my life that I have no rhythm and I can't carry a tune. Except for my brief try at chorus in eighth grade. (My friend Michael Metti convinced me to try out. I actually made chorus, but my sisters laughed at me and I decided to quit. Just like my engagement to Mary Corona, when I was five years old. I bought her a ring, gave it to her because she was the absolute love of my life. Again my sister's made fun of me, so I remember asking her for the ring back. God Rest her soul as she has passed away.) The Hippie movement was right on time for my friends and I. The signs were all there and it was exciting. Looking back on the times I am still amazed and surprised about how unaware our parents and the police were concerning the times and the drug scene. I remember a hippie jeweler in town who had a small three bedroom house and he painted it the color of the rainbow, and put large bubble windows in place of the traditional ones. When you walked into the store he had completely covered the inside walls with broken pieces of mirrors in every room and had large display cases with all his wares. He burned incense and had black lights everywhere with brightly colored T-shirts for sale. Even I thought it was slightly bizarre for 1968. However, neither the police, nor our parents ever voiced any concern about the house, even though it was a major source of marijuana and hashish. Good times, where you could charge your purchases on your credit card and be styling. I suppose that it was a real sign of the times. Every one I am sure has many stories like that. People just didn't catch on or if they did they really did not care.


    Fortunately for me, I was the first year of the draft lottery for the Vietnam war. They were taking everyone with numbers 210 and lower. My number was 242. Free bird! I am sorry for all the young men who went to Vietnam, many did not come back or they did in body but not mind and spirit. It was my good fortune to go skiing and not to war. I remember thinking what a very lucky group of men my friends and I were. We all worked in our family business's or in local jobs and were free to take long ski vacations, In my case, and Captain Zooms, Touloose, and Creme-Kings we all were able to go and live in ski town's like Aspen, Vail, in Colorado, Brighton in Utah, Jackson Hole in Wyoming. It started out by skiing weekends, then week days, until we realized we could ski every day if we became bona-fide ski bum's. Every mother's night mare, a son or daughter with out a real career, drifting through life like the snows of winter. I remember my first winter at Arapahoe Basin, as beautiful as it was every one was talking about Grand Targhee, in Wyoming that was the first and last mountain to get snow. It was addicting, the freedom I mean. Get up every day and turn your boards until you were exhausted. Work where ever and when ever you could. It was a freedom that captured my heart and soul and I guess that is why I have always wanted to write about it. To explain why we all ran way, we were in a way a lost generation. I believe that I found myself in the running away. Subsequently each and every one of us did. I really want to follow the lives of the people I knew at Arapahoe Basin, and where they went and what they did with their lives after leaving.


   The mountain changed us all and touched us all in it's own way and we all found our individual truths that we were searching for. All in a winter's tale. We all moved on but we shared a special time in a special place with a group full of searchers. Sometimes I think I almost know what it is I want to say. These day's it is more pressing and wanting to come more as my time has been put into perspective. I always thought I had all the time in the world to write what I needed to write. Having been diagnosed with Cancer, (a non lethal form of skin cancer, that will require another unpleasant surgery, and six weeks of radiation therapy,) has put my time into perspective. Write, hell yeah, as often and as long as I am able. I suppose that when I look back at my life in my old age to come and Thank God! for the wake up call and the time that I was able to spend writing in my future life, I will say it was my singular greatest turning point and inspiration to pursue the dream I have always held so close to my heart. Time is relative! I'm sure that even Prince would love to have a little more time. No one ever thinks they are going to run out of it. Guess what? I have had my moment with time the past few weeks. My future is a little less certain. Time a little more relevant than it ever has been in my life. The future is mine to create..

   Thank you for your love and support Katarina.


   I would often listen to this first song when I was working out at the Athletic Club in Colonie and taking writing classes at Union College. It would help me to focus on my dreams of writing and forget the reality of living in a city. I remember how very unhappy I was in the city. I just couldn't get my act together there.

   The second song I would listen to with the artist Evelyn Wilson, we were kindred spirits in the city longing for new horizon's and distant frontiers. She liked Prince, I was not so enthusiastic. I hope she found her horizons. I found mine and a beautiful woman to share them with.

Today's Songs

"Never Surrender," Corey Heart

"Purple Rain," Prince

My little nurse and angel who has helped through my ordeal and I am sure will continue to lift my spirits through the coming battles! I can't forget her good friend "Boney".

Ski Colorado!

   So I am biased, I do believe that the order of ski adventure is rated, Utah, Colorado, Wyoming, Montana, and New Mexico. Many people would dispute my opinion but after thousands of hours and runs on the mountains of America I feel qualified to make that statement. I love them all each and every one, each and every state, each and every mountain, slopes and runs not to mention the quality of the high mountain snow. They all vary in size shape and technical difficulty. Unfortunately in Ski Area Management the designation of the difficulty of the runs vary tremendously. A Blue Run in Utah might be considered a Double Black Diamond in Colorado. They have the need to sell the experience to the consumer. I have learned to live with it. It is O.K. each and every mountain has their unique experience as well as the quality of snow. Some are groomed to perfection, the brush is removed on the sides of the trails and in places like Deer Valley in Utah and Beaver Creek in Colorado the tracks of the snow cats are sidestepped by the Ski Patrol so that the area is impeccable. No ridges left in the trails. It is all good. You learn to glean and appreciate each and every area for it's unique claim to fame.

   It brings me back to my reason for wanting you to Ski Colorado. This evening I was browsing through Facebook and I saw a post from someone who worked at the chain stores called The Ski Market. They were stores I grew up with in the East. The majority of my friends were managers or employees. They were a discount store for quality ski apparel and equipment. If you were a serious Ski Bum, you bought your gear there. Any way, they were posting to other former employees about a Ski Reunion in Aspen, Colorado, during the 2016 U.S. Ski and Snowboard Hall of Fame Induction & Skiing History Week, April 5-10. Aspen is a good mountain and it would be great to see the former managers and ski friends from this great chain and to maybe make future contacts to research the History of Arapahoe Basin. It has become a former hobby turned serious pursuit for my upcoming retirement years. I personally haven't skied in over twenty years. Retiring my sticks for saddles and spurs in my married life. Colorado has been getting very good snow and if you have never turned a ski downhill here you need to.

   The coming full moon has reminded me of my youth and climbing in the back country on Loveland Pass to Ski the abandoned mine dumps by the light of the full moon. Wow! is all I can say and remember about it. A kid from the East climbing mountain sides and skiing the wilderness by the light of the moon. Talk about gut wrenching and heart pounding stuff, these days a brisk walk with our toy poodle is my heart pounding endeavor. Don't feel sorry for me, I had my turns when I was young and could climb and ski these places. I have no regrets. I look forward to the work. In my future, I have researching and completing my Historical Novel. My motto is Retyre 2018. Then full pursuit of my writing dreams. All good things come to those who plan and prepare.  Hope you enjoy the pics of A-Basin and of skiing on Monarch Pass. Love the Verticals. While I miss the thrill of skiing, I find just as much joy from a well written piece. I have a lot to write about and a long future, I pray, in which to pursue it.
A Song for Colorado
"Colorado," Flying Burrito Brothers

My buddy Piper with her good friends.

An Appointment with Knowledge

 

 "Knowledge is a most peculiar affair,"he said, especially for a warrior. Knowledge for a warrior is something that comes at once, engulfs him, and passes on."

Don  Juan to Carlos Castaneda, "Tales of Power."

                                                    Wild Horses
Wyoming, early morning prairie dews
seep deep enough, pooling reflecting
a wild chestnut stallion's eyes.

His hooves kicking pebbles rippling
little waves, flowing trickling into
small streams of mirages,
dissipating into noon day vapors
and pastured greens of rattle snake plains.

                                                Appaloosa Sky
Now I listen to horses
in fields of green grasses
that reflect from blue mountains
in waves of grey moonlight
that dawn is an Appaloosa
with and eye of forgiveness.

                                               Just Ask A Horse
Now you see,
I've got this light
It's from these mountains
That I Bring.


Happy Hunter's Moon, and Harvest Moon.

Listen and Open Your Chakras
Seven Chakras Activation & Healing Meditation Music

A Walk In The Park

My flights of Fantasy are impossible to control once you let them flow. I started making a mental list of my prerequisites today while I was on Red Mountain in Aspen looking down on Aspen Mountain. I thought of my early years listening to my grandfather talking about Whiteface Mountain in New York State. I started skiing Gore and Whiteface in high school and quickly graduated to Vermont Mountains. Places like Killington, Stowe, Mad River, and Glen Ellen. In the early days it wasn't enough to just ski them. It was a challenge to get a free day pass or figure out a way to ski for free some how. Some of our early trickery was to Ski Glen Ellen early where they would let you take a free run up top to test the conditions. If you wore heavy ski clothes you could take off your coat and tell the lift op that you were too hot and your ticket was on your coat below. They would buy it for a about a half day. Then you could leave and drive to Mad River and buy two $2.50 ride tickets and ski the bumps there. The moguls used to get as big as Volkswagens parked sideways. Voila, a complete day of skiing for chump change. It didn't take much undergraduate work to realize that skiing in the East was a cruel hoax. Time to graduate.
The West, discovered on a ski trip in Fast Eddy's (The Bucklemeister's) Micro bus with the bursting Orange Suns in the window. The trip brought us through Colorado, Utah and Wyoming. It also brought us home with a Van load of Coors Beer. I was hopelessly hooked on deep powder and steep ski runs. So much so that I moved West to pursue my dreams. Life is funny though because I originally was on my way to Big Sky Montana. A ski bum's true ski dream. Except that as I was leaving a gas station wash room in Dillon Colorado I happened upon a friend named Angela. She informed me she lived with Mary and Melissa and they had jobs at Arapahoe Basin and a condominium. It was the late 70's and times were much more free then. A quick overnight visit and I had a season's ski pass and a home with the girls. I had hit the ski lottery. During that season I had the opportunity to get to Big Cottonwood Canyon in Utah. The home of Solitude and Brighton. I would revisit there many times for the grandeur that they were. A ski patrolman friend who had fallen in love with Utah was kind enough to take me under his wing and show me all the powder stashes he knew. Although that Little Cottonwood Canyon is much steeper and grander, Big Cottonwood Canyon had unknown places.
One of these was Honeycomb Canyon. The Powder Stash of all Stashes, I lost my mind (or what little I had left any way.) I was hooked I visited and revisited there as often as I could. Like all great places and most cities the rest of the world discovered it and (my suburbia) stash grew into a popular place.
There are many places that you ski and while you are skiing you realize that you are just a visitor. You can find your way back but it is always just for the moment and then the moment is gone. You change or deep inside it changes you. You touched it, caressed it, put down tracks on it and the wind and snow will fill then in and you were never there. Was it just a dream? A beautiful romantic love affair that only you experienced. How do you share it? Do you speak of it respectfully among friends they way you would of a great lover? Do you go through life never talking about it again? Now that I am older I still have no answers only the fond memory of the freedom and liberty to pursue my dreams.
Honeycomb Canyon, Big Cottonwood Canyon, Utah

It is funny in life that certain songs and lyrics become Anthems to you and when you are young and making life decisions the words almost speak to you. I remember a room mate of mine telling me that if a Played Bob Dylan late at night when I came home after a night out drinking that he would break all of my Dylan Albums. Listening to this song, I was a young college student again struggling with trying to stay in College and get my degree or be free and ski. I stayed and got my education buy flew to the hills as soon as I was able.
"What About Me," Quicksilver Messenger Service