In Loving Memory of Frank Thompson
You were a brilliant light illuminating our youth.
You were light years ahead of everyone.
God Is The Boss, Francis!
I was visited by an old friend the other day walking along the Rio Grande Trail through downtown Aspen. I had just passed the Aspen Art Museum on my way to the John Denver River Sanctuary, passing a stainless steel 30 foot artist’s rendering of the “Last Tree.” The Rio Grande Trail is a beautiful scenic trail that skirts along the river and opens upon a small meadow by the river. There are large boulders with John Denver song lyrics carved into them. It was there among the yellowing aspens that I sensed it, that very faint trace of the dampness of winter in the air. My good childhood friend came to me. I looked up and saw him hiding in the scrub oak turning red along the base of Red Mountain and the multi million dollar mansions that exist there. The Aspens’ turning gold along Smuggler Mountain, one of the last working silver mines, that made Aspen the Silver City. How I used to wait on its arrival with great anticipation in Albany, New York. The fall season is different in the East because of all the hardwoods to be found. In the Adirondacks, the Berkshires, the Green Mountains, and White Mountains, you will find an array of reds, yellows and golds. It signaled to me the coming of winter and my sport of choice, skiing. I imagined all of the hats that I have worn over the years to pursue my great love of the sport. How it has been my refuge through my trials and tribulations and how whenever life of the world got to me, I would simply choose another mountain to learn and ski.
It had begun simply for me in the early days. My grandfather filled my head with dreams of the Adirondacks and the beauty of them. I quickly made friends with the other skiers in my class. One of those was my good friend, Frank Thompson who has become “ The Captain” in my stories. I, a shy retiring bookworm, who found great solace in learned knowledge versus outdoor activity, was immediately attracted to him. He was already a ski technician and worked with skis and understood ski hardware. He turned me on to my first pair of jet foamed form fitting ski boots, called Strohlz, and my Rossignol Strato 105’s, they were 215 cm’s long. “My steel beams to hell,” I called them. My boots were purchased for me by my high school girlfriend Sandy. Frank’s room was a classic of ski posters and equipment leaned up in every available corner. One particular poster of a buxom woman in a tight fitting yellow Bogner ski outfit, unzipped to her navel exposing her abundantly large breasts, she was exploding through this incredibly awesome mogul field, and the caption read, “Keep those tips up.” It was a K2 ski poster. I thought he was the coolest kid in school. He was a real rebel where I was the nerd. Other posters, like the infamous Solomon Ski Binding Poster that said, “Solomon, Deliver Us From Premature Release.” These have all become great collector items. Frank became my ski mentor, and mountain teacher. Every available evening, weekend or cut day from school was spent chasing snow flakes and sunsets, until at a very young age, I took a year off from college, to pursue my dream of being a true ski bum, (I wish to write, Every Ski Bum’s Bible, a commentary of all the things you need to give up in life to pursue that dream.)
The culmination of that dream was skiing at Arapahoe Basin, which at the time was the highest lift operated mountain in North America. I had arrived. The steep, the deep, anti everything that corporate society stood for. No material hang ups or needs with a true disdain for the Corporate Whores who would sell their soul for the almighty dollars. I considered myself the self appointed King of the Mountains. I knew every inch and every skiable trail in America. Many places in America that I had skied were not accessible by lifts and had to be climbed. I was young, “no problem.” I conquered and truly loved every one of them.
Every year my friend that first trace of the wet dampness of winter would arrive and I would gear up for winter. In the early years we would leave Albany on Sunday to ski the mountains of Vermont, a state that I came to love dearly.
Francis’s mom, Bea Thompson, was a devout Christian and practicing Catholic. Her greatest concern was for our almighty souls and redemption from sins, she was sure that we were committing. Her concern included where we would attend church on Sunday if we were skiing. We were quick to allay her fears by informing Bea, that we attended Mass on the Chapel on the Mountains, every Sunday. We justified our lie by rationalizing that God invented Mountains and they were places of awe and inspiration since the days of Moses and we were somewhat of Biblical Characters ourselves with long hair and beards. Modern day Prophets if you will, we attended the almighty church of the high mountains. Our justification was dashed one particular Sunday Morning when Frank and I dressed in our White Stag ski sweaters tight fitting ski pants with our brightly colored ski jackets were confronted by Bea Thompson in her large blue terry cloth robe on her snow covered concrete steps in suburban Colonie, New York as were fastening our skis and poles to the roof rack of Frank’s Tan Dodge Dart. (Algernon, named after the Book Flowers for Algernon, yes it had push buttons on the dash to shift instead of a typical stick or automatic shift lever.) We had to face down the wrath of Bea who had found out about our lie, that ski areas did not have chapels on them. Like Moses, delivering her edict to the infidels who were worshipping the false gods of gold they had wrought, she stood with her outstretched blue terry cloth arm raised in accusatory fashion delivering a divine message straight from the mouth of our Lord himself. The cold chilly air crackles and rings in my ears to this day as she yelled, “God is the Boss, Francis!”
A Universal Soldier
There is a Universal Soldier A Universal Soldier I Think I've seen He's painted John Deere Green.
Loose Items O.K.
So Listen!
The National Centers for Disease Control
unveiled a $20 million “hot lab,”
a super-sealed facility
for the study of
The World’s deadliest viruses,
including pathogens “far”
more dangerous than
AIDS.
(In Protest of the use of explosives for terrorism)
Paris, France. Wednesday September 17, 1986 Tati Discount Department Store 3:28 pm
Blast. 53 wounded 5 dead mothers and children.
The report of a one hundred and five millimeter recoilless rifle
echoes through Big Cottonwood Canyon of
The Wasatch National Forest of Utah
gently awakening avalanches
rumbling through snowfields
above the timberline
of a sleeping Brighton and Solitude mountain sides
snow shifting, sliding, slicing, slamming, snapping
down among hundreds of year old pines.
I'll Stand By You, The Pretenders
Trading Trinkets, Tall Tales, Telling Lies
Downtown any town’s Main street
this town, down
passed a shellacked shiny brass handled
carved crescent moon wooden door of
“The Ancient Mariner”
across the street from an old fashioned Bijou
sequenced white bulb Marquee
Flashing, “Fiddler on the Roof.”
Butted by a brown concrete, steel, Lake Placid Hilton
descending down two flights
of green canopied wooden stairs.
“The Artist’s Café”
lapped white waves of Mirror Lake
reflecting the lights of “The Cottage”
and the excitement of the 1980 Winter Olympics
across from the Lake Placid Club
it’s walls filled with the owner’s original art
bustling buxom waitresses.
Comrade Ivan leaping to his feet touching my pins from Solitude and Brighton
would I care to trade for his shiny Soviet bears
slapping him on the back saying,
“certainly mine were worth a bit more, perhaps
one possibly two martini’s.”
Telling tales till they became martooni’s
The bustling waitress asking,
“Was I, could I be, an Olympic Athlete?”
Me smiling devilishly saying,
“Why, yes,
would she,
care to come to my room.
to view my gold medals from Europe.
For George Anson
Thank you for the High School Fraternity Ski Trips and showing me the Ski Area's of New England.
“No Hang Gliding”
...Goats Path....
dropping off
a narrow winding cat walk
from Mt. Mansfield,
Stowe, Vermont.
A square wooden sign says,
“No hang gliding."
Before entering a field of Moguls,
as big as Volkswagens,
parked sideways.
Against the Wall
(At Killington, Vermont)
Listen!
The prevailing winds
whisper,
they dance
across the rolling meadows,
at Killington in Vermont.
Blowing snowflakes
that stick to my eyelids
and freeze my toes.
Low Spark of High Heeled Boys, Traffic
