Photo by Frank Shine

Lo and behold, my dad served up yet another inspiration this winter eve to dream the impossible dream and chase this powder-filled pursuit. For years now, we ski bachelors have celebrated the merriest of holidays with an annual participation in Sun Valley’s torchlight parade. The orange glaze of road flares cast upon the moonlit snow matches the hoots and hollers of the ski patrollers and instructors as they dip and turn, snaking down Dollar Mountain’s freshly groomed face. Christmas spirit reigns high as revelers, wrapped up in the warmest of winter-wear, cheer on our steady string of holiday handlers. As the temperature continues to drop, a fervor of anticipation builds when the doors of the base lodge are flung open, and our frost nipped noses are treated to the delicious smells wafting from the feast just within.

Mingling and jingling, drinking and dancing, the spirit of the mountain rides high through the crowd as cheeks and toes begin to thaw, boots peeled off in favor of comfortable street shoes. As the night wears on, families head off to prepare for the early morning promised by the eager imaginations of babes curious and wanting. Younger instructors take leave in groups to collectively stave off the loneliness brought on by hundreds and thousands of miles of separation from their loved ones. Dinner plans and thoughts of warm fires in the hearth continue to thin the crowd, signaling the end of the party.

Arriving home, my dad and I embrace our own holiday tradition as our dogs greet us, tails wagging and tongues a-licking. Placing ourselves on the floor in the warmth of the crackling fire emanating from the old Franklin stove, we commence opening of the brightly colored packages mailed in from relatives distant in location, but not in affection. Serving an unorthodox purpose, our annual gift-giving is celebrated on the eve of Christmas so as to not interfere with our early morning preparations to hit the slopes as father and son. While other families are taking their time, sipping coffee and lounging in pajamas, I spend these precious morning moments chasing my dad down Christmas Ridge, dipping into Christmas Bowl for fresher and softer turns. These are the tidings of truly shared passion between a man-a bonafide ski bum-and his son. A gift that cannot be wrapped in paper or tied with a bow. A gift that breathes.

A gift.

Tags: Christmas, Dick Dorworth, Sun Valley, torchlight parade