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Growing up, I never really had a spring break. See, as a school kid in Minnesota, there was no such thing. Midwesterners were far too practical for something as frivolous as spending a week in the winter at a posh resort or at the beach, unless it happened to be in a hut on a frozen lake huddled around a hole in the ice. In fact, the closest thing we had to an official spring break came in mid-February and was pragmatically called "Energy Break." Whether it was a reference to the need to re-energize after a long winter or was borne of the necessity to conserve on heating bills during the coldest time of year, I'll never know, although I suspect the latter.
Not that I was deprived. Occasionally during this time, my parents would treat us to a weekend at the Rochester Best Western, about an hour's drive to the south. Fort Lauderdale is was not, but there was a bubble over the pool, generating downright tropical-like conditions well into the high-70s, and timed heat lamps in the bathrooms, which gave the impression of getting a deep, dark tan. It was more than a sun-starved kid from the northern latitudes could ever wish for.
During the high school years, I will admit, there were a few trips to Sun City, Ariz., to visit grandparents. But there's something decidedly un-spring breakish about a community where golf carts are the preferred mode of transportation and beehives are the norm. Sure, there was a nightly happy hour, but it was routinely followed by "Wheel of Fortune" and bedtime, somewhere around 7-ish.
I also failed to capitalize on any official spring breaks in college, virtual prime spring break years. Perpetually broke, I plied my vacations flipping pizzas, with an occasional, no-frills foray to ski if I could bum a ride. Even my senior year, you know, the year girls are supposed to go wild, I packed up the no-nonsense business suit and headed to the big city in search of an internship. There'd always be time for spring break later, I told myself.
That time came soon enough. After a summer imprisoned in an empty cubicle pretending to look busy, I heeded the call back to the mountains, where it was practically spring break every day. And there, over the course of the next few years, I partook in many of those as-yet-to-be-experienced spring break rituals: spinning the shot wheel; wearing ski boots in the bar until well after 9 p.m. (at which point they had become drinking vessels); and general drunken debauchery that can't and shouldn't be recalled at this time.
Funny thing was, not only was this sort of behavior condoned by the ski resorts, it was sanctioned. Bear in mind it was the post-"Hot Dog," pre-Skier Responsibility Code era (OK, I think the thing may have been in fine print on the back of my pass, but no one ever actually read that.) In fact, at one resort where I was tenured, locals spent the last day of the season camped out on the highest point of the mountain. As the day progressed, the gathering turned into an all-out free-for-all, a writhing mass of pasty white flesh, P-Tex and partying for as far as the eye could see (which by the end of the day, was only about as far as the end of one's scorched nose.) Eventually, the sun would go down, hypothermia would set in and the dazed, blue-lipped masses would make their way down the mountain any way they could. It wasn't pretty, but it was dark, so no one cared.
Eventually, the tradition came to an end, thanks to a broken back - the result of an ill-advised stunt and possibly one too many "party favors" - and a consequential law suit. Likewise, it seemed that all over the state, resorts were cracking down on potentially litigious behavior. Naked skiers were threatened with prosecution to the fullest extent of the law, and SUI became a punishable crime. And maybe it's a good thing. Who wants to have the unpleasantness of landing the chair previously occupied by the exhibitionist entourage, let alone be the one who has a drunken collision with one of them at a high rate of speed? It's bad enough to sustain an injury, let alone be the laughing stock of Ski Patrol. Besides, Colorado resorts have morals and a reputation to uphold. Our ski slopes are not tawdry Las Vegas sideshows, for Pete's sake.
Which isn't to say, I don't occasionally long for those bygone days of unabashed, well, bashes. So, it was with a bit of relief that I was privy to last Sunday's closing festivities at Purg. It was one of those rare closing days when the April weather cooperates, producing the perfect combination of abundant sunshine, great coverage and heroic slush bumps. Although parental duties precluded me from actually participating in the merry-making, there were plenty of others to do it for me, including women in aqua one-pieces toting pre-mixed Nalgene margaritas, bikini clad girls frying to that perfect shade of crimson and de-shirted lads teetered precariously close to the fire pit (which wisely was not in use). There were even reports of a partial eclipse of the moon on lower Pando. All this plus an all-you-can-drink beer tent for $10. It was "Hot Dog" heaven - a little slice of the spirit of ski seasons past, when free love, rock 'n' roll and beer reigned supreme. And had I not been the only sober person there, I suspect it could have been quite enjoyable. OK, so all hell broke loose - including a snowball fight that made the Animal House food fight look like a church picnic - and the plug was ultimately pulled by uniformed officers of the law. And maybe there was a little public indecency, a skier or two acted irresponsibly and some rules were bent, but as any closing day veteran will tell you, it's not spring break till something gets broken.
- Missy Votel
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