Silver Creek Preserve

En route to Aspen from Sun Valley, by way of a pit stop for a BBQ in Salt Lake City, I had a chance to visit a place where I had once frolicked as a child. Silver Creek Preserve, located where the rolling plains of Southern Idaho ebb at the mouth of the Wood River Valley, once played host to Papa Hemingway’s outdoor exuberance, and in years since, thousands of angling anglers have waded its calm waters. There are no rapids here; no malign obstacles.

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.

I know.  I’ve been bad.  It’s been a full two weeks and I haven’t updated the TatsVan Chronicles. However, I’ve been able to hop back on a pair of skis and shred the mountains the way they’ve been begging for it since last season.  It’s snowed at every place I’ve driven into since my first run on Aspen Mountain in 18 inches of blower pow.  I’ve been to Crested Butte, Snowbird and Sun Valley since then, but the story will soon come.

In the meantime, I have a little gem of a video for you to enjoy.  It’s your chance to see what the Sun Valley Christmas Eve torchlight parade looks like from a skier’s point-of-view.  Unfortunately, the higher-ups at the company wouldn’t let me up the lift (due to the fact that I’m not a ski instructor this season!), but my good friend Brie Wetmore was there to lend a helping hand, or head I should say.  After clipping on my POC Receptor Bug helmet and turning on the VIO POV.1 helmetcam velcroed to the top, she hopped on the lift at 5:45pm, December 24th, 2008 and proceeded to capture a beautiful moment on skis.

The energy in this valley runs high during Christmas season, and all the tourists are out in full force.  Sun Valley puts on an ice show at the Sun Valley Lodge ice skating rink and follows it up with a torchlight parade and a firework show.  It’s a pretty magical experience, and if you ever get a chance to see it for yourself, you’ll know why.

But, without further adue, here is the video clip.  Thanks Brie for giving us all the chance to see what you saw!

CLICK HERE TO WATCH THE VIDEO

POC Receptor Bug Helmet

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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.