My mother wants to sell the house in Vermont.

I don’t know what to do with the past.  Oh, I own it, but is it still part of
me.  Who I used to be, am I still the same person?

I didn’t go to the house in Vermont for fifteen years.  I couldn’t.  The last
time I was there was with Kim.  And my father.  They’re both gone.  Dad six
feet under, Kim who knows where.  I just couldn’t face the memories.

But finally enough time passed.  Last summer I went.

I’d like to tell you it was a piece of cake.  That the ghosts were gone.

But they weren’t.

When I went upstairs where Kim climbed on top of me for sex on New Year’s
Day, it felt like yesterday.

As for my Dad, the Vermont house was his project.  He loved it.  He could
fiddle around with it in his inept way.  My father was a thinker, not a physical
man.  There was the time he tried to put a handle on the dust cover of my
turntable and cracked the damn thing.  And the time I caught him in his Marlboro
Man coat, cutting a tiny piece of wood with a CHAINSAW on top of the marble
entrance to the Manchester house.  I didn’t even know he OWNED a chainsaw. 
And, as an Eagle Scout, I could just see the blade slicing through the branch,
digging into the marble and shrapnel flying and ambulance sirens blaring.

Maybe that’s why my mother is selling the house.  Because, despite denials,
she can’t go either.  Now that my father, her husband, is gone.

Still, I don’t want her to sell it.  Because if she does, I will lose some of
my past, I will no longer have a direct connection to Vermont, the most
influential place I’ve ever lived.  She says I can use the proceeds and stay in a
hotel, but that’s not the same as staying in your own place.  With one, you’re
a transient.  With the other, you’re a resident.

But those days were a long time ago.  I went to college in Middlebury in the
seventies.  Although I frequented the Manchester house in the eighties, now my
life is L.A.-centric.  If I ski it’s in Mammoth, or Aspen.  Some place much
larger, much more exotic, with better conditions.

If I go at all.

Because, like the Vermont house, I’ve got too much wrapped up in skiing.  I
used to go every day.  To the Middlebury College Snow Bowl.  To Alta and
Snowbird for two years thereafter.  Oh, I’ve lost nothing in technique.  But, you
don’t get that edge unless you go for thirty days straight.  To possess that
confidence that allows you to dive into the trees like it’s an open slope.  It’s
kind of like running into an old girlfriend.  One who dumped you, who you
still love.  There’s still something there, but it’s just not the right fit.

I was thinking of going to the Vermont house this summer.  Before my mother
decided to sell it.

But then I kept hearing about Felice’s condo.  In Vail.  It seemed time to
start a new tradition.  I said we should go there.

Even with no snow, I had mixed emotions.  I looked at the runs and thought of
days passed.  Yearned to do it again, but then thought of my boot problem,
how I just can’t get a pair that fits.  And how the Langes that used to be my
secret weapon were placed in the dumpster and I just can’t get the performance
out of any of the new boots.  Except for Langes, which are so narrow that the
pair I bought in 1996 almost had me giving up skiing.  And now I’m getting too
deep into it.  And that’s just the point.

I did go boot shopping in Vail.

But that was after we rode the Eagle Bahn gondola to Eagle’s Nest.  When I
realized I was still the same person.  When, across the valley, half-shrouded in
clouds, I got a glimpse of Mt. Holy Cross.  It was like all those days in
Vermont.  Gray days.  When you looked up at the mountains ensconced in clouds,
and knew it was snowing there.  When you were up there.  When you could see
only feet in front of you, but you were feeling completely alive, out in the
elements.

The following day we rode the gondola in better weather for a hike.  First to
Felice’s father’s tree.  And then…

Well, we had no plan.  But the hike to Mid-Vail was longitudinal.  It just
wasn’t strenuous enough.  Then again, do anything at this altitude and it’s an
effort, especially if you’ve just flown in from sea level.

I suggested hiking to the top.  On the map there was a trail.  The
Kinnickinnick trail.  It started just below Look Ma, the legendary bump slope,
and then rose to…who knows where.

Well, it was supposed to end up at the top.  But if we went straight up, we’d
never make it, it was too steep.  With every step, we breathed hard.  Until I
started sipping water, I felt I was going to fall over.

But, after a couple of switchbacks, we entered the woods.  It was
SPECTACULAR!  Amidst the giant pines.  Gaining altitude was no longer an effort.  Every step revealed new treasures.

Until we lost the trail.

We found ourselves in the middle of an alien slope.  Where there were no
markers, only bear shit.

I’ve got a healthy fear of bears.  I saw them every day at Philmont Scout
Ranch.  They’ll come up close and personal to people.  I’ve seen it.

And now I was becoming mildly panicked.  Yes, we could pick our way down the
ski slope, but would we be killed by wildlife before we hit civilization?

We had to climb back up.  We retraced our steps.  But we couldn’t find the
damn trail.

But then, like angels, an elderly man and a younger woman appeared.  They
pointed the way.

Still, we seemed to be going in the wrong direction.  And the signs were
confusing.  But then we exited right by Sun Down Bowl.

That’s the essence of Vail.  The Back Bowls.  That’s what made it famous. 
Two coffee cups embedded into the mountainside, the backside of the main ski
area.  Well, in the beginning anyway.  Since the seventies they’ve expanded. 
There are now bowls extending for miles.

I wanted to see more.  I convinced Felice to take Ptarmigan Loop.  Sure, it
was in the WRONG DIRECTION!  Away from the bottom.  But by my calculation, we’d
end up on a promontory, with a clear view of a bunch of 14,000 footers.

I was right.  But what I didn’t account for was the goat shit.  Everywhere. 
Shaped like the heroin capsules in "Maria Full Of Grace".  You couldn’t avoid
them.  The smell was horrific.  So bad it ruined the view.

Still, by time we made it back to Eagle’s Nest, for the ride back down, we
were feeling self-satisfied, in that way physical exertion makes you.  You feel
like you’ve ACCOMPLISHED something.  That if you did this every day, you’d be
fulfilled.  Hell, that’s how I ended up going to college in Vermont to BEGIN
WITH!

Thus, two days later, after a driving loop through Leadville and then
Breckenridge, to get a better handle on what was happening in this
part of Colorado, we found ourselves at Beaver Creek.

Beaver Creek was part of the ’76 Olympic plan.  You remember, the Denver
OLYMPICS!

Well, maybe you don’t.  That’s because they canceled them.  Because
environmentalists went nuclear.  They didn’t want all these facilities built in the
Colorado Rockies.  At the last minute the games were moved to Innsbruck.  But,
eventually, after tons of red tape, the premier site was erected, AFTER the ’76
games.  They call this facility Beaver Creek.

Beaver Creek is primarily known for its high class appointments.

But it’s also become legendary as the site of America’s World Cup downhill
ski race.  On the Birds Of Prey.

Felice wanted to hike to the falls in East Vail.  But I lobbied hard for
Beaver Creek.  I wanted to get up close and personal to the Birds Of Prey.

I’m here to tell you that the Birds Of Prey is frightening.  Even in the
summer, even with no snow.  To slide down this sheer slope at eighty miles an
hour, your hand touching the hill when you make a turn, requires cojones of steel.

Not that Felice was impressed.  She kept cursing the woman in the hiking
office.  Who said this trail was in the woods.  It was a service road, strewn with
rocks, in the bright sun.

And then it went uphill.  Which, at 10,000 feet, is truly a chore.

But then, the road turned into a path.  And went into the woods.  And that’s
when it got frightening.

The path was only one person wide.  Slip, and hopefully your will was in
order.  I was getting a bit freaked.  We hadn’t seen another soul, and although I
had hiking boots, Felice was in her New Balances.  I forged ahead, to maintain
progress, you don’t want to stop, you freeze.  I turned around to check on
Felice now and again and then I realized this endangered ME!  If I didn’t
concentrate on where I was stepping, where I was going, odds were I
was going to misstep!  And I didn’t want to bear the consequences.

But then we hit a meadow.  We saw other people.  The trails joined.  It was
only a quarter mile to Beaver Lake, our chosen destination.

Uphill, of course.

And that’s when I found myself behind Felice.  Staring at her behind.

I don’t think I’m quite like Kramer, not the quintessential assman, but watch
a female derriere in motion for more than a few minutes and you can’t help
it, I can’t help it, my member started to stir.

The lake was beautiful.  It only took us about fifteen minutes to get there. 
But the path continued.  I envisioned hiking just a bit further and ending up
on the other side, at the tiny sand beach, were we could enjoy some privacy.

At first it was easy to convince Felice to keep climbing.

But then she started to waver.

So I enacted the ten minute rule.

And when that wasn’t definitive, when that time had expired and it still
wasn’t clear where this trail was going, I enacted a new FIVE minute rule.  Which
I fudged by a couple of minutes.  But then even I had to admit it was
fruitless.  We were going up, but there was no destination in sight, we were off the
map, we had to stop.

Right by a log, in fact.  One that Felice could place her arms upon while I…

I ran it by her.

I can’t say I always wanted to be a member of the mile high club, but this
was a chance to be a member of the TWO MILE HIGH club.

No, she didn’t want to do it.  There was no one around now, but could we
COUNT on being alone?

And just then, as if on cue, we heard a rustle.  And maybe forty feet up the
trail was an animal I didn’t want to wrestle.  Felice said it was a deer. 
Looked like an elk to me.  Staring right at us.  They’re supposed to be afraid of
people, but way up here in the mountains did this animal get the memo?

That seemed to prove the point.  We were so far from civilization that the
only thing we had to fear was the wildlife.

So Felice took two steps up.  Turned around.  Leaned forward and placed her
hands on the log.

I reached around, unbuttoned her jeans, and pulled them down to her ankles.

Then, I dropped trou.  Pulled down her panties, and then my underwear.

Well, first I thought it necessary to warm her up.  To get her in the mood. 
I extended a digit and slowly stroked her pudenda.  And when the juices
started to flow, like two four-legged creatures in nature, I entered her from behind.

I didn’t know whether to close my eyes and enjoy the physical ecstasy or to
keep them open and allow the beautiful scenery to enhance the moment.

Finally, the laughing stopped.  The talking stopped.  We were doing it.

And then, from up the hill, we heard another rustle.  I didn’t want to be in
flagrante delicto as some bear came to chew me up so I pulled out.  But, as I
turned around to confront my opponent I didn’t encounter an unreasonable
creature with a brain the size of an orange, rather it was a RANGER!  A FOREST
SERVICE RANGER!  Sauntering down the trail RIGHT AT US!

I mean I’m shvitzing.  My pants won’t pull back up, they’re stuck.  Felice
has got her jeans above her waist, unbuttoned, but I can’t pull my trousers
above my underwear, which is stuck around my knees.

And then she was upon us.  Yes, it was a she, a female Forest Service Ranger.

What was going to happen?  Was she going to write us up?  Should we make a
run for it?  Was this even a crime?  Isn’t that what animals do, FUCK?

Like Eddie Haskell or any other deviant caught doing something untoward I
chatted this twentysomething Ranger up.  Waxed rhapsodic about the landscape. 
Asked her where the trail went.  And, when her pulse calmed down a bit, Felice
joined in.  How long could we keep this ruse up?  Till she came down on us?

She wouldn’t leave.  It’s like we were buddies now.  It was interminable, I
felt like I was twisting slowly in the wind.

But then she said her goodbyes, and marched off down the hill.

I’d like to tell you we pulled down our pants and resumed our actions, but
that’s not what happened.  After debating whether the Ranger could have possibly
thought we were peeing, I mean there was no way she didn’t see us with our
pants down, we hiked back down the trail to the lake.  Where you could see the
trout swimming in the water.  Where you could look up and see mountains of a
size not extant in Vermont.  Sheer walls coming right down to the lakeshore.

It was a long hike back down.  Hours.  With spectacular views of the Birds Of
Prey and the Gore Range.

I felt like this was where I belonged.  That I needed to spend more time
here.  I couldn’t wait until winter came, when I could slide down these slopes. 
Chuckling as I rode up the lift thinking of our summer adventure.