Hot Potato

The only worry I have is if Grand Targhee will let us come back. Earlier I brought together a group of degenerate skiers and snowboarders to tear apart Grand Targhee, a western Wyoming ski area known for powder and fog (we got plenty of both).

Four straight days of powder were complemented by four straight nights of mayhem. We liberated antique sleds from our hotel lobby, got into a minor foodfight at the local watering hole and pretty much got ourselves on the don't serve list at the steakhouse (I'm not sure what made our waitress mad, but it could have been an intoxicated Marty (see photo) bringing a pitcher into the restaurant from the bar across the street).

Of all the great riding that weekend, the move of the trip was, sadly, not photographed. After a few pitchers one of my friends strapped into his snowboard at the top of the steps in our lodge lobby, rode down the stairs and crashed hard on his ass.

Oh, and I found out how cold a well digger's ass really is (see last post). The windchill was 30 below zero on top of the mountain one day — enough to give a well digger's ass frostbite.