“The usual place?” my friend asks, already knowing the answer will be a resounding affirmative.
After an amazing if exhausting powder day we head to the bar, a particular local microbrewery that happens to be our dearest spot. Removing helmets as we track snow into the entrance, we immediately see familiar faces. Our favorite bartender greets us, apologizing in jest that my most preferred of their beers is still out of stock. I pick another one without hesitation.
We settle in, removing soaked jackets, clomping around in duckbilled ski boots. While we wait for our other ski buddies, friendly faces join the fray–fellow lovers of the happy hour. There’s the ultra runner who I love ribbing because he never quite realizes it until too late. There’s the affable DJ who on Friday nights spins reggae records and aways joins us for a round. And the gravel riding aficionado who doesn’t ski much is sure to arrive soon, though he’ll probably only chat with us for a second before seeing what newly single women of interest might be ponying up to the bar solo.
Those frequenters also catch my friend’s eye. As a happily married fellow I simply cheer him on, giving him bad advice by accident, telling him I’ll pull wingman. But he knows I don’t know how. Either way the beers go down easy, especially in such good company.
Is it all easy, good fun? Of course not. Self-inflicted battle wounds proliferate, especially at our age. Our favorite bartender cries every so often on their shift, sometimes inebriated themselves, often driven to tears due to their partner’s habit of passing out on the bar. And there’s certainly times we take it too far ourselves. While we usually thread the needle on our heavy happy hours, swilling just the right amount and avoiding spiraling into darkness, sometimes we fly too close to the sun, burning our souls as well as our livers. Just like we did at 26, so we do at 36, maybe just a little less often.
There’s no question this isn’t the healthiest habit we take to. While the intermittent sanctimony of the sober can occasionally compete with some of my overly heady telemark brethren, at least they have a platform to stand on.
The fashionability of drinking alcohol is most certainly fraught these days, and for good reason. Not only is knowledge growing of just how much the drink impacts the body, the scourge of alcoholism knows no age; rests for no era, especially so in a ski town, where the slope from party to problem is indeed slippery. And a new stand has been taken for clear headedness. Sober and sober curious dominate social media and the everyday - mocktails and dry meetups have proliferated, creating a safer space than ever to be openly sober.
We understand the need for that, just as much as we see the complications of our habit, no matter how unrepentant of wets we are; no matter how much we adhere to an Al Johnsonian ethos.
Because we love our happy hours, warts and all. There’s something cathartic about loosening the bolts on the machine every so often. There’s something to the camaraderie, the breaking of liquid bread. And while I’m far from the first to realize this, for some reason it seems to pair curiously well with skiing.
Though it only happens so often anymore, I’ve taken to this ritual for some time, in part because of how much I look up to my father. As a young man I took my dad’s stories of ski town life in the 70s and 80s to heart, and realized early my main goal was not to get a high-paying job nor move to the city; no, I wanted to emulate him and those Cold Warriors - skiing hard and having a good time became the vision. My goal was to become a ski bum.
Lofty aspirations, huh? I thus wasted my youth being a tavern rat, working dead-end jobs so I could do what I wanted when I wasn’t on the clock. Cleaning golf clubs in the summer gave way to waiting tables when the seasons changed, skiing (and happy-houring) until I was blue in the face every winter. But sidecountry laps with my restaurant pals and 2am curfews eventually gave way to making a family with the gal I met almost fifteen years ago. Yes, at a happy hour in a bar near the base of the mountain.
My friend and I recount the spoils of the day, maybe a little careful not to gloat too much towards those who are just getting off work instead of the mountain. We revel in the good life, meditating on fresh snow and great times, taking down cold brews. Soon we reach that heady point a few in, no one tells us what to do, no one tells us where to go. We’re on the wings of the two headed beast. Happy hour heroes.
But as always, the time to go comes quickly. I have my wife and kiddos to get back to - playing the roulette of stay-or-go is in the past for me - I won’t see how far this one can go. But my friends and the rest of the motley crew will. I say my goodbyes and vicariously imagine what might come next for this bunch, a group I was one of until I exited, passing through the swinging portal, back to the real world.
There the sun has long ago left the valley. Smiling, I find my darkened skis just past the crossroads, already covered by another round of snow rolling in, silently falling in heavy flakes, aglow under the incandescent cones of street lights.
I trudge in my ski boots across the street to catch the bus just before it rolls up to the stop. Contented by where I was and where I'm going, I step onto the behemoth that will take me home. I gaze one more time at our bar before I step on, a hazy look I’ve made maybe a few too many times as I approach middle age. But it’s at once a glimpse back in time and into infinity. Looking back at the usual place.
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