Peak Parties

Peak Parties

I met a guy in a cowboy hat on the bus home one night. He drunkenly slurred something about a peak party the next day, which obviously had me immediately intrigued as it contained the word “party”. For a fair while, I tried to get other important details out of him, such as where and when, and as he struggled to keep his eye-lids open and stop himself swaying, he disregarded my questions and got off the bus to go to work, leaving me determined to find out more.

On the mountain the next day, I hadn’t heard any more about this mysterious gathering and had forgotten all about it until I unintentionally downed a few ciders and met my friend for another. She had been told which chairlift to catch and was informed that it closed in twenty minutes. If you missed it there was no other way up.

We poured the remainder of our drinks into empty water bottles we found on abandoned tables and strapped on our boards. Riding down in the direction of the chair, we passed other party seekers with backpacks full of beer. The sun was shining, the snow was fluffy and the skeg crowd on the lifts emitted clouds of marijuana into the blue skies.

Being first-time rookies to such an occasion, we simply followed everyone else down a steep, icy, windy run. One by one people seemed to veer to the left of the run through the trees, unstrap and hike up a giant mound of snow over looking the entire glacier bowel and forest of trees covered in fresh powder below. The last few steps gave way to a colourful array of boards and skis stuck in the snow, fencing off the party from unwanted intruders and keeping the good vibes and fresh sounds to seasoners livin’ the life at the snow-covered amphitheater.

A bar had been set up and sculpted out of ice with sexy ski bums selling Fireball shots and beer. A few shirtless, long-haired dudes were shoveling kicks at the base of the crowd and hundreds of young skiers and boarders from all corners of the globe were stripping down, drinking up and chilling out in the sunshine on top of the world.

A few shredders attempted the jumps with beer in hand, throwing triple backies and 360s in the air above hundreds of feral heads. Snowballs were thrown at the injured failures and soon a giant snowball fight broke out between the two sides of the bowel. Some of the more gnarly folks starting pegging ice clumps and we decided to bail before a brawl began.

Boarding down the mountain with my fellow shreddogs, beer in hand and sunset above, breathing in the fresh alpine air and feeling light and dizzy from the booze, I truly felt alive.

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