Happy Holidays From POWDER Magazine

The Best Christmas Present(s) Ever.

By: Matt Lorelli, Senior Editor, POWDER

As I rolled over to look at the neon-green numbers of my bedside alarm clock (I didn’t have a smartphone quite yet), I smiled. “6:12 a.m.? That’s late enough.”

Popping out of bed with the teenage limberness I now yearn for, I opened my bedroom door to a dark and quiet house. I could smell the delightful scent of the 11-foot Christmas tree that stood tall in the first-floor family room, presents now loaded underneath it, I presumed.

It was Christmas morning, and as usual, I was the first one awake in the house.

I walked downstairs, but before letting the family dogs out for their morning routine, I stole a glimpse of the gifts wrapped under the tree. My eyes were immediately drawn to the two long planks leaning against the wall adjacent to the tree. They were sandwiched together and perfectly wrapped in Santa Claus wrapping paper. Skis. Oh my god. Skis.

My Mom has a strict rule that all presents must be opened with the entire family in the room. Remembering this, but also floored with excitement, I walked over to the skis, picked them up ever so carefully, and then placed them back down. I noticed a gift tag attached to the wrapping paper.

“To: Matthew
From: Mom + Dad
We hope you enjoy these in Utah!”

“Utah? We’re going to Vermont next week, not Utah,” I whispered to myself.

Confused, excited, and worried that I would get caught looking at presents before I was supposed to, I ran out of the family room. I let the dogs out, came back inside the house, and then…waited.

For two hours, I waited. When my parents and brother finally came downstairs, I sprinted into the living room, tore open the skis, and practically exploded with joy. A brand new pair of Salomon Shogun 182s. A dream come true.

Laughing, my Mom asked, “You saw those before you were supposed to, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” I admitted, “But what’s this about Utah? I thought we were going to Vermont next week for our ski trip.”

“Santa doesn’t come to this house anymore,” my Dad chimed in, “But that doesn’t mean your parents don’t have some tricks up their sleeves.”

Reaching over to me, my Dad handed me plane tickets to Salt Lake City that were scheduled to leave the next day.

“Merry Christmas. You ready to ski some Utah powder on those new skis?”

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, friends. Be safe, have fun, and consider giving a loved one a pair of skis for a Holiday present. Who knows, it might change their life forever.

Christmas Goose

By: Ian Greenwood, Writer, POWDER

For as long as I can remember, my dad’s cooked his “famous” Christmas goose. I call it famous because to our family, and the 20 or so Christmas regulars we invite to our house each winter, it’s a recurring staple. Without the goose, there is no Christmas in the Greenwood household.

Is it good fame? Or infamy? I haven’t interviewed everyone who’s tried the goose for this tidbit, so really, who knows? I like it. I’m also biased. It’s my dad’s thing, and I’ll always support my dad. He could mix Hamburger Helper with cranberry sauce and mayonnaise, and I’d happily pass off the resulting gruel as a secret family recipe. 

Anyways, one year, in my early adulthood, I finally got recruited to help him cook. It was time to pass the torch, marking a pivotal moment. I imagined that someday, in the distant future, I’d teach my kids the same arcane techniques. I paid close attention as my dad ran through the weathered recipe. But before stringing the bird or coating its skin with salt and pepper, we had some preparation to attend to. That included sharpening knives. This is not a red herring.

Carefully, I started slicing an onion for the stock. Well, maybe I wasn’t being careful, or I got distracted. Either way, the knife, glancing off the onion’s exterior, slid down towards my finger, which was perched like a juicy, vulnerable sausage on the cutting board. Metal met skin, and a tidy chunk of my index finger got separated. 

It hurt, I think. Surprise injuries have a funny way of blurring your senses. Blood welled up on the tip of my finger. My mom and I raced to the hospital, where, using chemicals, a doctor cauterized the wound. This part definitely felt bad, as my shock had worn off. So did the throbbing in my finger, which persisted for days afterward. Mostly, though, my ego stung. A goose and an onion had defeated me. This didn’t bode well for the future of the Greenwood mantle.

And that’s why the tip of my finger is flat on one side. I hope, rather than visiting the ER this Christmas as I did, that you go skiing. Unintended body modifications aren’t a great gift. Powder turns are much better.

P.S.

The goose lives on. I’ve since helped cook it without losing any digits.

Gin n' Juice in Casper, Wyoming

By: Izzy Lidsky, Writer, POWDER

Sometime during the pandemic when I was still living in Colorado, I’d found a tattoo artist in Denver who did intricate, handpoked tattoos that I was quickly obsessed with. I emailed her when her books opened in hopes of snagging one of her very coveted tattoo spots, but without much optimism that I’d actually get one. Alas, I heard nothing, and eventually gave up on the idea of getting a piece from her.

More than two years later, well after I’d moved to Jackson, I got an email saying I’d been taken off her waitlist and asking when I would like to schedule a tattoo appointment. Shocked, I responded and said I could likely make it to Denver before Christmas, and figured I’d make a trip out of it to see my family for the holidays. So, three days before Christmas, and in the very worst snowstorm of the year, my partner at the time and I packed up my truck and headed out at dawn.

Despite the sideways blowing snow that greeted us driving through Grand Teton National Park, only minutes into our journey, we pressed on, hoping that we’d be able to lose the storm as we got closer to Colorado. Unfortunately, the weather had other plans, and as we arrived in Capser, Wyoming, some four hours later, the only highway in and out of town closed. Officially thwarted, we pulled over at a gas station to find a place to stay for the night.

The first hotel we called had one room left and was happy to book it for us. When we inquired about their limited vacancy and asked if it was due to the roads, the receptionist responded, “It’s because Snoop Dogg’s in town tonight!”

Several hours later, we found ourselves enjoying the water slide and hot tub at our hotel and were newly in possession of tickets to see Snoop Dogg that night. We enjoyed a hearty meal at the local Texas Roadhouse, complete with a fishbowl margarita. It was -22 degrees outside.

The night brought us to Casper’s massive stadium-style venue, where, alongside a girl in a full Grinch costume, we saw Warren G, the Ying Yang Twins, T-Pain, and Snoop Dogg’s Holidaze of Blaze tour. Complete with a live band, strippers, and Snoop smoking some very illegal weed in Wyoming, it was a dream come true. We bought my Mom a t-shirt and considered it a success.

The next morning, we woke up before dawn to continue our drive. Less than an hour in, I had my partner pull over so I could puke up the night before’s Texas Roadhouse and watch it freeze on the way out of my mouth in -32 degree temps.

At long last, we arrived at the tattoo parlor, and three hours later, I walked out with a tattoo of two dancing skeletons that I affectionately named Snoop Dogg and T-Pain, and knowing it was a Christmas I’d never forget.

Yellow Christmas

By: Beny Huckaby, Social Media Producer, POWDER

Nothing screams holiday spirit like pissing your pants. Here’s the story of my first holiday ski trip to Vermont. 

It took me a while to realize it, but I actually grew up in a bit of a bubble when it came to ski terrain. What made me realize? The first and only time I peed my pants while skiing.

Growing up in one of the country’s lake-effect machines in central/upstate New York, I was used to relatively consistent snowfall, storm skiing, and the occasional champagne-powder day, but it came with a catch—short runs. My local ski hills had one or two lifts, and if you straight-lined from the top, you’d be back at the bottom in under five minutes.

So, when my family went on a Christmas-time trip to an expansive ski resort in Vermont, the size of the mountains caught me a bit off guard.

While lapping Sugarbush with my family and friends, I started fighting the urge to pee. My FOMO won. I stuck with the group. Eventually, as a fiercely impatient yet fiercely independent fourth grader, I decided I’d split off, meet my family at the base, and bomb it to a bathroom as fast as humanly possible.

I remember speed-tucking down the mountain, using every ounce of energy I had to hold it in, when a horrifying realization set in: how could a full-speed run still take fifteen minutes?

By the time I reached the bottom, I was in full panic mode. I’d been told the bathrooms were in a yurt, so I skied directly to the first one I saw. I popped my skis off and sprinted inside, only to discover it was a ski demo tent. The actual bathroom yurt was about seventy-five yards away.

I ran back outside and began trudging through soft snow in my kid-sized, size-four ski boots. Already furious with my impatience and general incompetence, I finally gave up. I remember the feeling vividly: warm pee rolling down my snowpants and into my boots.

I was usually a pretty tough kid, but when my family arrived, I was devastated. I skied back to the condo with my dad and immediately took a recovery nap.

If you’re wondering, I’ve since learned to pee in the woods, manage my FOMO, and avoid full-blown powder Panic. It is always worth a quick stop at the lodge if it means skiing a little looser afterward. And now that lodges also mean cold beer, I’ve grown quite fond of a midday break. Enjoy those laps, folks.