10:37pm Christmas Eve: the lights shut off in my dad’s house leaving us opening early Xmas presents in the dark. We quickly checked outside, and all the power in town seemed to have gone out. The only lights seen were headlights of the few cars still driving around at that hour. After rounding up some flashlights, my dad and I ate some of his homemade cookies and turned in for the night, not thinking much of the blackout.

The next morning, I awoke to the crackle of the fire blazing in our old Franklin stove in the living room. The smell of steak and eggs filled the air, as my dad busied himself with Christmas morning breakfast. This is an odd sight, considering our ski bum bachelor tradition of getting out of the house early to ski and teach on Bald Mountain, usually with just a muffin or granola bar to see us through the day.

But this Christmas was different, and as my bleary eyes adjusted to the early morning dark, I realized the power had yet to turn back on. As the sun began to light up the day, and after multiple calls to the ski school office with no answer, my dad figured he wasn’t teaching for the day. He settled in, replete with bathrobe and slippers to wait out the power outage to see if the ski lifts would even start turning. At this point we discussed ramifications of a blackout in this destination ski resort, and lamented the misfortune of all who were stranded in hotels and the like across town.

With no power to run computers or to turn on the TV, I used what little battery was left on my phone to access Facebook and see how wide this blackout really was. From all the exasperated posts and complaints about a chilly Christmas morning, I realized the outage spread as far as Bellevue, 13 miles to the south. This was to be an unforgettable holiday.

Around eleven o’clock, we decided to head out into the single digit weather, though the sunny skies brought a little extra warmth on our walk through town. With few cars, and even fewer people strolling about, Ketchum felt like the small town of the 1970s that my dad wishes it still was. No stores were open, and some had signs saying they’d be back when the power comes back.

For fun, we walked to the Idaho Power station located on Sun Valley Road near the old barn. A man representing Idaho Power was there, busy on his cell phone fielding calls. He assured ius that they were working hard to determine the cause of the problem, and seemed tired from being up all night working.

It was only noon by the time we returned from our walk, and with a bout of cabin fever threatening to kick in, I decided to go out and hike Baldy. There were just a few other cars in the Warm Springs parking lot when I pulled in; it seemed that others had gotten antsy too. I passed a few groups of folks on climbing skins, but I kept mostly to the cat-tracks since I was bootpacking. 3300 vertical feet later, and I made the final push to the top. I was greeted by a silence that proved eerie during regular season in the middle of the day on a ski hill with million-dollar chairlifts and no electricity to run them.

After a leisurely ski down the hill, my dad and I met up for dinner at an unusual place for the Tatsunos during Christmas: Panda chinese restaraunt. Our normal family dineer with our good friends, the Greers, was not to be, since their power had yet to return. So, my dad and I stuffed ourselves on chow mein and general’s chicken, telling stories of ski bumming in the Alps of Idaho. Not a bad end to the Christmas that almost wasn’t

The 2009 Christmas Eve torchlight parade went down in its annual fashion on Dollar Mountain tonight. The parade caps off the ice show performance on the outdoor ice rink that lines the terrace at Sun Valley’s historic old Lodge hotel. It was cold tonight, but the nips of Jager and Schnapps kept the jovial spirit high as the ski schoolers and ski patrollers waited up top.

Once the ice show ended, at exactly 6:04pm, the torches were struck and an intense orange glow emanated from the top of the mountain. Quickly, a line of bright orange dots could be seen dancing across the snow, a neon snake winding its way down the snowy slope. Hoots and hollers could be heard before the riders were even halfway down the hill.

As the parade neared the bottom of the slope, figures could be distinguished, arms swinging the now stubby flares through the crisp night air. With each skier or snowboarder that came in, the torches were extinguished, and high fives were shared all around. The kids and families watching from the bottom, ignoring the deep chill of the night, found their loved ones before heading inside to feast on the ordouvres provided.

There’s few things that really make this festive time of year ring in better than this annual Sun Valley tradition. For my dad and I, this is our one day each year we know we’ll be in the same place. Twenty-six years into it all, I wouldn’t miss it for the world! Happy holidays to everyone, and I hope each of you enjoy your own family traditions as well.

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.