In line at the bar on the mountain, a man in psychedelic overalls approaches another man in psychedelic overalls. The former is patterned with the face of Jackie Robinson. The latter is chic-er, and its wearer has paired it with a smart rainbow-and-manila helmet. I find myself impressed at the grayscale of both sets of psychedelics. C grade apres ski on C grade mountains perhaps mandates a bit more fashion, especially so close to town.
White people are here. This is where they are. At Big Bear. Skiing on the last day of the season, one of those days in Southern California where you could surf Malibu then drive two hours east and snowboard naked at 8,000 feet.
Zones like these—ski lodges, golf courses, airport lounges—have great drinking rules. Its strongly recommended at all hours, an artifact from the Greatest Generation WASPs that created these spaces, and a subtle acknowledgement that everyone here knows how to behave. I love these warped realities, and I love drinking before noon, perhaps an artifact from the Greatest Generation WASPs who created me.
People who ski are very good looking. Overalls guy two, the approachee, is handsome, freshly cut hair, well-groomed, 26-27, brunette. His approacher is scuzzier, older, more hippie-ish, but also handsome in a ruddy ski bum sort of way. Pointing to their shared style, he says, wow, we’ve got like a vibe here.
Approachee: hell yeah bro, we do.
I’m so vibing right now.
Oh yeah?
…on shrooms.
Oh hell yeah hell yeah.
It’s 11:29am. I’m sweltering, it’s 70 degrees according to the app, but there’s no way. The sun blazes, the snow melts, streams of cold water pour down the mountain into expanding pools of mud. My body is sore and sweaty, and I’m soaking in the sun like a fat white pig. On the wood deck of the bar, the wire tables sizzle like electric stove coils. I feel great.
Approacher: it’s these chocolates, I’m vibing on half a chocolate.
Hell yeah hell yeah.
You want to vibe too?
Hell yeah I’m down.
Ok I’ve got full bars for 40.
Hell yeah I’m super down.
Ok I’ll find you.
Ok dope we’re sitting uhhh, over there, over there at that table.
But I sit at the table next to them and the mushrooms dealer never reappears.
It’s mobbed. Brawny mullet guy in Pit Vipers and red hockey jersey sipping Jack and Coke. Muscular dad with orange Deus cap talks to acne-faced teenage son with orange beanie about college tuition—the orange hat family. Sleek gay man in open flannel, chest stubble on display. Many people are wearing their ski goggles; strangers enjoying meeting strangers, drinking for no reason, commenting on how hot it is, what a day to ski. Chest stubble guy meets swarthy man with Mexican blanket-styled goggle band. I recognize his $170 Nike cop boots, “A modern, athletic boot built for those who defend and protect.”
I’m drinking a Paloma. I appreciate the slight taste of bubbles in it. I hope to myself that grapefruit is like onions, acidic going in but once inside turns basic and calms your stomach. A lithe long-nosed Norwood 4 shimmers in a turquoise skin shirt that at certain angles glows like scales. Down syndrome girl in pink snow suit grins wide with no front teeth, her canines shouting to each other across a chasm. The mountains are slush. It’s gotta be 85 degrees out here. Gen Z kid in Raiders hat with ironic bushy mullet and ironic bushy mustache places can of voodoo juicy hazy ipa in front of another lithe long-nosed Norwood 4. They sit next to the mushroom buyers, who look antsy, waiting in vain for their vibes. Mushroom friend also sports overalls, his black with a Volcom symbol where the straps loosely connect, the Mens Roan Bib Overall, $260. “The Roan Bib is the real hookup when it comes to coverage. 15Ks of breathable waterproofing comes in a 2-layer V-science shell made with REPREVE® recycled fibers and non-fluorinated DWR for less of an impact on the environment and a big impact on the elements.”
Taut young hispanic security man in flat brim baseball cap and green reflective ski Oakleys—Sutro Prizm Road Lenses, $173, a Pit Viper imitation—has a strong jaw and white teeth. He says today is the last day of skiing, and now trespassing season begins. Board addicts sneak in and hike up the hills and snowboard down. He has to chase them down and call the police. Recently, some dudes brought an inner tube in and launched off the half pipe, but the inner tube burst as they went off the ramp and they died. We share a hearty laugh at that one.
My black Patagonia jacket, sitting on the wire table, is searing hot. I touch my soft white inner bicep on it and yelp. Man with brown mustache twirled up with oil on each side, toddler son with curated blonde mop, their gear looks the most expensive of all. He drinks cups of free water. The twirls are so high I can’t believe it, up to his eyes. What must his son think. Overalls men cheers with IPA men. One says he’s in sales. Roan Bib says he’s a date farmer. IPA says he makes brand videos but he’s also really in sales: “90% getting clients, 10% production.” He sprays on a bright orange can of SPF 35 and his hazy IPA glows in the sun. I’m drinking my Paloma, tasting the bubbles, avoiding touching my jacket. The wire tables are getting hotter.
A friend in Bozeman sent me your way. I know that territory. Your take on the Californication of Montana was worth reading twice. Back in 1992, I spent the afternoon in Stacey's Bar in Gallatin Gateway. A lit-up indigenous cowboy rode his horse through the back door, past the bar and out the tall front double doors where his two white girlfriends waited in his convertible Cadillac that was pulling a horse trailer. My decade in Missoula was full of scenes like this... at the Roxy Theater, the slightly drunk tall-in-the-saddle white cowboy with a lively girl on each arm and his six-gun and holster on his hip takes a seat near the front for a matinee showing of "Apocalypse Now."
An hour after reading, I am still laughing!