Another day of more of the same, and all through the valley the same question ricochets from everyone’s lips: where is the snow?
Through the streets they wander. Bars full to bursting with skibums and snowrats, the racers and the posers, but no snowchat. Just relentless drinking and grumping. So much ice, so little powder, where is the snow, where is the snow?
Head to toe in their favourite jackets and trusty gloves, salopettes and sturdy boots, their movements are that of a zombie mob: the need to move, but nowhere to move to. Everything points to the mountain – we all should be on it, doing flips and shit. And yet, despite the glow of the sun and ominous clarity of the blue sky above, not a single panda-goggle tan in sight. As if the weather gods were holding the clouds back like airport luggage crew at the reclaim, saying “not yet, just one more day, make them want it”.
And as the eagle-eyed among us watch the forecast with admirable tenacity, the nerves begin to flicker. Tuesday, they say. More likely Wednesday, they murmur. Tuesday… Wednesday… Tuesday… Wednesday…