Thursday, March 01, 2007
snifflenosed and smiling
We swish by the two abandoned ski resorts that lie sleeping up here - wrapped in orange netting-fence, ski lift benches rocking discontentedly in the biting breeze. I fantasize about owning one of them. Skiing in winter, horses in summer. Hiking all the time (with snowshoes, occasionally). A pub called The Snowplow. A boutique hotel, with really awesome beds and fluffy iinens and a cigar lounge with big, plush club chairs and a view of - well - the heart-pounding cleft of the Angeles Crest that surely appears over the ridge at the top of this paralyzed lift. Our mascot, Winston. The phantom plans occupy me until the front bumper nudges a snowdrift just off the road.
It's amazing, this peace. This pine-needle air, which brings with it an armful of memories of happiness past, and I'm reliving them here with your fingers running through my red hair.
We are silent. The only sound here is the melting of the trees, making little snowball-fight sounds as the ice releases from high branches and makes its hesitant way to the damp, redolent earth.