Everyone knows that when you list skiing, Colorado is number 1.
Everyone knows that when you talk about the best skiing place you have to go to it's Alta. No, it's Jackson. No, it's Japow. No, it's Stowe in a Nor'Easter. No, it's Bridger when the Cloud wait that's Jay, wait, what if they's a hurricane and Sugar and Beech are open in October on like 36 new and, no, it's Mammoth in May, but, no, that's Alpental in May, and
Sorry. I'll start over. Readers of this blog* will know that we do not choose bests without at least our tongues firmly planted in our respective cheeks, if not outright lies. (Thanks, Richard Russo, I think. Read his stuff, just the same.) If I make a list, I leave spots open on purpose. Or we make a top ten that's like 40 or 7.
There was one turn, though, one that cannot be beat. It was somewhere near Flush Gap, whether above or below, I cannot remember. It was a Thursday in February, the day my friends in a band I used to be in released an album, with a party in some joint in Tacoma I can see but whose name I've forgot. This particular turn was a left, or a right, it doesn't matter particularly, but it was a turn. I was on the ol' Jaks, that beautiful matte orange beast, maybe the last actual Karhu ski, maybe not, I can't recall when K2 knocked down their door and ruined everything.
Title is the second part of the line from Suzy Boguss' "Like the Weather". I don't know, I just really like that song right now. I even tole Amy last night it was my favourite country song of the moment. Still, Interstate Love Song. There's a reason it's got something like 333 milliones of listeners on the Spotifier.
*Joke's on me. There aren't "readers of this blog".