by Jeff Brown
Twas the day after Christmas and all through the Wasatch,
Not a powderhound was stirring, and neither was Sasquatch.
The tools of the trade were all tuned, waxed and primped,
In hopes that the big dump didn't really get nixed.
The powderhounds stayed home all snug in their beds,
While visions of face shots and freshies, flashed through their heads.
And me in my powdersuit and my partner in silk,
Had gone to bed early with cups of warm milk.
When up in the mountains there arose such a clatter,
I jumped out of bed and almost lost control of my bladder.
Away to the computer to log onto the net,
I clicked on the UAFC website to check the snow depth.
I clicked onto Collins and couldn't believe my eyes,
76 inches had fallen from those clear and blue skies.
My heart skipped a beat with thoughts of this new fallen snow,
Those freshies and face shots were giving my face a new glow.
I woke up my partner and had her get dressed,
We flew out to the car to stay ahead of the rest.
Into the car we loaded all of our gear,
Even remembered to pack lots of good cheer.
We drove up the canyon, not a vehicle in sight,
Expecting to see snowplows come into our headlights.
The road up the canyon was winding and curved,
We arrived at the parking lot without even a swerve.
Not a snowflake had fallen, not even just one,
I was frustrated, heartbroken and really quite bummed.
I climbed out of the car and looked all around,
And tried to think without getting myself down.
When low and behold out there in the woods,
Was a weathered old man, that I hoped, had the scoop on the goods.
There was a look about him that you wouldn't call mean,
It was comforting and soothing and he was really quite clean.
His face was leatherlike, all wrinkled and brown,
With duct tape on his jacket to help keep in the down.
I walked humbly and slowly, and approached him with care,
Afraid I might upset him if he thought I might stare.
He spoke of the good days, particularly 83 and 84,
And as the evening progressed he had me yearning for more.
He had gotten his rhythm, the stories really began to flow.
Then I could tell he was tired, his stories started to slow.
He stopped speaking quite suddenly and put his hand on my knee,
His face changed expressions as he looked straight at me.
I was longing for something to help keep me ago,
I wanted it badly, How did he know?
Then he spoke in a manner that was somber and slow,
He said, "Son, don't you worry, I don't want you to bum."
"Just be patient," he said, "for the snow it will come!"