Scumbag Skiers

Alright folks, it is officially that time of year where everyone wakes up at the ass crack of dawn to go sit on I-70 for 3-4 hours, stand in line at the lifts for another 3-4 hours, maybe get an hour of skiing in, then sit on I-70 for another 3-4 hours. If you haven't figured it out by now, I have my personal views on the ski industry here in Colorful Colorado, but what I am about to share is sure to take you on a wilder ride than accidentally ripping down the Horseshoe Bowl at Breck. Buckle up.

There are certain demographics that everybody hates on the slopes. The Texans in jeans riding pizza the whole way down and cutting up the entire groomer. The high school kids in triple XL hoodies ripping their vapes in the lift line. The future ski movie star that won't let anyone go until they get the perfect shot. Snowboarders. The list goes on, but there is one group of people that you may not see as often, but has definitely infringed upon your enjoyment on the hill.

They're silent. They're fast. They usually wear orange jackets and navy blue pants for some reason. I'd put money on it that they ride those black and yellow Rossignol skis. They usually travel in packs of 3-4. If they get less than 100 days on the hill their families disown them. They're way better at skiing than you will ever be. So what's my grudge against these guys? All they do is ride around in a line like little ducklings and hit every natural jump they can find, so what's the problem?

Picture this: you're standing at the top of a bowl on a pretty decent powder day, you find the perfect line, and you're about to hop over the edge. All of a a sudden an orange flash of lightning backflips by you and steals your line. Shame on you for taking too long to send it, but what happened to mountain etiquette? Have we no moral compass once we strap in on the hill? Maybe it's the lack of oxygen at that elevation distorting their judgement, but these people have such a disregard for us common folk on the hill that it makes me sick.

I'm not sure if my hatred for these orange coated ski sharks is routed in their decisions to zip by me at 80mph on a groomer, or the fact that I will never be as good as them. Regardless of which is true, you can bet your bottom dollar that the slopes won't be the last time you see them. Just remember how they treated you on the hill as they're trying to merge back on to I-70 in their Tesla with a ski rack on top. To all the ski sharks out there: we'll see who's king of the hill when my 26 year old, rusty SUV breaks down for the third time today right in front of you.