March Madness 2024

The tourists are gone, and we have survived another year of March Madness.  No, not NCAA hoops, Magic vs Bird or Catlin Clark.  I’m talking about that spring break time of year when friends and relatives choose to come out to visit.  It is the Goldilocks time of year when it is not too warm and sunny but not too cold and cloudy, when the snowpack is thick and the weather is nice, ‘just right’ for some spring skiing.  They don’t realize that the sun, birds and the Sand Hill Cranes have just come back and we are just emerging from our hovels from our winter hibernation. They don’t see the months of darkness we enjoy, the cold and unrelenting blizzards that build our snowpack and the crowds of Christmas and Sundance that help us pay our bills and keep the buses free. 

I discovered this place on my own frat boy spring break, when we came out west and slept on the uneven floor in the little red house on Park Avenue.  The skiing was fast and the weather was warm and we burnt our neophyte faces off in the high altitude sun and our tenderfoot tongues on the hot new Mexican food.  The beer flowed like wine.  We quickly moved out here and never looked back.  Since that time we are deluged with guests every year, mostly in the spring.  If we lived in Des Moines, I’m thinking we wouldn’t have this opportunity.  Friends came out early and stayed late and slept on our floor and in our guest beds when we built houses.  That lasted until we got significant others who kicked them to the curb and told them to get their own accommodation.  This is our life, not just your vacation. 

So they come with family and friends, and eventually wives and children, packing an ungodly amount of equipment and spending an unimaginable amount of money, spurring our economy and making our town successful.  They stock up on enough food and alcohol to last a year, thankfully depositing the leftovers at our house on their way out of town.  They store their equipment in our garages and basements, where I now have several pairs of phantom, skis with no apparent owners.  They temper the normally frantic ski tempo down with their needs and necessities, Zoom calls and work deadlines, as they do their own thing at their own pace. We enthusiastically meet them on the mountain when they are ready, willing and able and they adhere to our request to simply not make us wait or go shopping.  We graciously ski a few runs with them until they get hungry, hurt or tired and we go our separate ways, to meet again later for beers and dinner or just to tell tall tales and lies.  After all, if it wasn’t for tourists we would all be miners. 

I give them tons of credit; it is very tough to come from far away with all that stuff and get everyone up to go skiing.  It’s a challenging thing to do if you’re not used to it, prepared, experienced or in good shape.  Taking kids is even harder and these parents should be commended for their efforts to introduce their kin to the ski culture that has changed all our lives for the better.  They all promise to move out here, but eventually most go home, returning to what they really want to do.  It’s a nice place to visit but they wouldn’t want to live here.  These visits do serve as a continuity link to where we are from and other lives we have lived.  It is hectic, making room for others in our homes, our town and the slopes, but I wouldn’t change It for the world.  I realize that although they come to ski they also come to see me.  It is a great opportunity to catch up with old friends and new family and they remind us constantly what an incredible place this is, when we lose perspective.   I wonder what it would be like if we lived in Des Moines.

Matthew Lindon, ’79 - Snyderville