A "Lost and Found" Ski Trip

Just got back from an amazing ski trip in Conway, N.H. A bunch a my friends, mostly from college, and I all rented a condo and hit the slopes of Wildcat Mountain. It was honestly some of the best skiing of my entire life and a great way to reconnect with some folks I hadn't seen in years. The problem is that, although I love to ski, I don't do it enough to gear up like some I know with sweet Spyder jackets and sleek Atomic skis. Instead, I'm forced to pan-handle for the bare essentials -- everything from snow pants to goggles. I'm sad to say, I end up looking like I raided the Lost and Found booth at a local middle school.

So, in essence, my friends trade a old pair of gloves for the unadulterated joy that comes with hours of mocking me. I think that's why they part with their tattered stuff so quickly -- Not out of kindness, but out of a love of ridicule.

I partly blame my grandfather, since he was the kind man who taught me to ski in the first place. During many a frosty chair lift ride up the slopes he would impart valuable lessons, such as avoiding moguls, going slow and not worrying so much about fashion. His lessons resulted in a rather uncool kid, but I suppose they did keep me alive. And as for fashion, I think he would have agreed with Thoreau: "Distrust any enterprise that requires new clothes."

Too bad my friends don't care much for Thoreau.