For a couple weeks earlier this month it seemed as though we were in the ski movie version of "Ground Hog's Day". An extended high pressure system didn't bring any new snow but it did bring many sunny days in a row. That Monday morning started like most others, the only difference being I was dog sitting one of my god-dogs (my friends give me this designation more as a built-in dogsitter rather than actually having godmother type of responsibilities). I got up, washed my face, brushed my teeth, made some coffee, loaded the car and headed for the mountain.
I cherish my ski morning process. I enjoy sipping on hot coffee while listening to the music streaming from my XM radio. I enjoy driving through a winter wonderland, getting out of the car and hearing excited skiers and boarders as they boot up and make their way to the chairlift.
It was just as I entered the parking lot, 11 miles away from my house, that I had an overwhelming feeling that I had forgotten something. Knowing my morning process, I instantly recalculated my steps and sure enough with a quick glance over my shoulder, I was able to confirm what I had forgotten. My ski boots.
I have been a pass holder for 12 seasons. In all the drives, walks or bus rides, I have never forgotten my boots (I did, however, lose them - temporarily - for a couple of weeks). When I worked for the Selkirk Powder Company I had forgotten my base layer pants a couple of times but those are easily replaceable. I have always been prepared and if minor items had been forgotten, borrow or buy was always a possibility. You may think to yourself, "Why didn't she just rent some?" After wearing custom orthotics for 6 years, the idea of renting boots doesn't even enter the mental register.
Without hesitation, with my tail between my legs and the acknowledgment that day would've been day #20, I turned around and drove back to town knowing that sometimes these things just happen.