I chose Sierra skiing alone, over Valentine’s Day with the wife-person. I still think she should thank me.

I spent Valentine’s Day all alone, standing on the ski run like an abandoned chairlift tower.

 

Maybe I could blame it on The Organization for Promoting Virtue and Discouraging Evil.

The news reported that 140 people were arrested for celebrating Valentine’s Day and all the red roses had been confiscated from the flower shops.

 

O.K. that happened in Saudi Arabia, not Sacramento, but you never know; it’s better to be safe than not go skiing on a powder day, right?

 

So, truth-be-told, it was self-imposed isolation, as I left the house under the cover of darkness to take advantage of some fresh powder on the ski slopes.

 

While I won’t invoke the old adage that there are no friends on a powder day, in my defense, after almost 34 years of marriage, some people might see this as a gift of peace and quiet from me. (“Some people” being anyone who has spent any time around my incessant babbling insightful discussions on important topics expressed with my bountiful rapier wit.)

 

The weather up at Sugar Bowl, which is just northwest of Lake Tahoe, was a perfect bluebird day, and while the latest storm dropped less than a foot of new powder, given the near-drought winter we have been experiencing, even a halfway decent day of skiing this season might even be expressed as almost epic.

 

The groomers did their typical wonderful job and spent the night leaving ski runs of ego-stroking corduroy throughout the mountain.

 

       

 

As always, my morning began with a dosage of muscle-relaxing fluids, administered via flask.

(Hey doc – how would you write that in your medical shorthand scribbled on a script?)

 

Lunch was a nice respite spent on the sunny deck while I enjoyed a Philly cheese steak sandwich, washed down with a local IPA.

 

Except for the fact that I couldn’t take my eyes off that huge dog who was in turn eyeing my lunch…or maybe it was my beer.

 

 

       

 

As I was trying to make my menu selection, the young man cooking behind the counter was so enthusiastic about the Philly I assumed it should be fantastic, and luckily for me, it was. 

 

I did have to wonder, though, if possibly Ryan was under some form of a witness protection program, as he was extremely reluctant to be photographed, and once I took this picture, he quickly disappeared around the corner.

 

       

 

As to my lack of husbandly duties for this revered national holiday (brought to you by Hallmark Greeting Cards and See’s Candies), not to worry. Before I left home, I put a romantic greeting card on the kitchen counter with a very nice gift, plus I left a bottle of bubbly in the refrigerator, and I made it back home before dinner.

 

The very nice gift happened to be a new Garmin GPS unit that—purely by coincidence—will fit in my pick-up truck, as well as the wife-person’s Volvo.

 

Did I mention that the wife-person hates these electronic, monotone-voiced assisted navigation tools?

“Recalculating, my ass!”

 

Maybe that explains why the bottle of bubbly was on the kitchen counter when I returned home…completely empty.

 

Like a sign I saw on the hill, maybe that empty bottle was a clue stating the obvious.

 

 

       

 

If only I could figure out what it meant…