<< Two garlic-breathed ski hippies lurch into the apres-hill basement beer zone a few minutes after 4 p.m.
Both have your average, garden-variety rat's nest beards. Both have standard-issue Scotch-guarded bib pants snagged from the high school ski swap. Both look like they have a hard time holding down any job that requires shoes.
But one wears a backpack.
Where's he been? What rope did he duck? Why is this man smiling? What did I miss?
I hate him.
As paranoid and greedy powder fiends, we naturally assume that any dude wearing a pack in-bounds must have it loaded up with the tools of sensual delight -- exotically crafted shovels, extendable probes, and transceivers that go both ways. Logically, we conclude that anyone carrying all that gear must have it with them to support their unusually fruitful excursions into the steep and deep.
Loud and clear, the message that we receive from a skier in a backpack is "I've been places you'll never see.
Ironically, the more accurate translation may just be: "I have bagels with me." ..... >>
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