Even the national meteorologists had tracked this super storm for days as it traveled from the hinterlands of Canada. And for once, they were right on target. It was snowing like crazy and you could almost hear the merchants’ collective sigh of relief the morning this storm finally blast into the valley. It had been a dry, sunny winter, the kind they hate in Aspen. By the end of January, the base was only six inches deep. The tourists were complaining and the locals were leaving for whiter pastures to the north and west. The season had all the signs of an early washout. But, for this moment, just for today, it was blowing white again and all was right with this Rocky Mountain world.

With the long anticipated arrival of the season’s first substantial snowstorm, the gondola line was even longer than it was during all of Christmas week when the mountain was still mostly brown for want of snow. Today at nine o’clock, it wrapped round and round, right into the coffee cart in front of the Ajax Tavern. Through the frosty air, the queued skiers were bundled and hardly recognizable, except for the token bunnies. A few of them showed up, even in this blizzard, coated by full make-up, Chanel headbands and sunglasses, and paper thin spandex unitards with mink trim. It didn’t matter that it was a mask, hat, and goggle day. These ladies had nothing to hide, and they certainly wouldn’t be skiing. Sitting on the Mountain Club at the top of Ajax, in front of the fire, this crew would wait there till noon to ride the gondola down the hill, just in time for their daily manicure appointments in town. But this was Aspen after all, and pageantry was an expected spectacle—a part of the local landscape. I knew it well—heck, I knew them well. Everyone else was dressed for cover from the weather. And, with unisex ponytails, you could hardly tell the girls from the boys—there were no grown-ups here today, well except for maybe one—me.

I’d been here very early this morning. I waited, inconspicuously, over the rail at the top of the stairs. I maneuvered myself in position as soon I saw him reach the bottom of the steps and head for the gondola base. It was easier to spot him than I had imagined. His stride, no his peacock-like strut, was unmistakable. Though covered from head to ski boot in bulky, cold weather gear, that gait of his, reeking of privilege, oozing entitlement, was like a radar signal. I honed right in and locked on. I followed, unnoticed, as he walked up to the special gondola entrance set aside for season pass holders. He didn’t abide lines like mortal men. He was different, divine even. Everybody told him so. So, the rules didn’t apply to him, never did since the time he proved, as a young man, he could run with a football better than anyone else in the country. Big deal, a lot a good that does in the real world.

Everything was falling into place as I’d hoped. Wearing a hat, goggles, and a gaiter covering my face, no one had noticed me this morning as I went to the locker area to change into “my” ski clothes. To make matters better, the snow falling today was an exquisite, dry variety, nicknamed, “champagne,” and, as any Aspenite will tell you with a good-natured wink, you can count on no one on such rare occasions: there are no friends on a powder day. Each skier out for fresh tracks this morning, no one would pay attention to anybody else, especially when, after a long drought, champagne was falling from the sky. The simple, unspoken Aspen code: grab as much pleasure for yourself as possible, to hell with everyone else. Then again, there’s that other saying, “when in Rome,” well...you know, have some bread and join the circus. So, that’s what I did. No one would identify me in this crowd of self-centered Patricians.

As we entered the private gondola cab together, passing ahead of the long line of the have-less tourists, he never even recognized me. Can you imagine? I was wearing one of his old ski suits and the self-absorbed bastard didn’t even bat an eye. In fact, he didn’t even have the humanity to acknowledge the presence of another soul sharing the same tiny space. If I had any doubts about what I had planned for this morning, he wiped them away by being himself, a creep. Without realizing it, his arrogance sealed his fate. One show of kindness, and maybe I would’ve lost the nerve—or even the desire to do it. But no. I saw no reason to abandon what I’d come here for.

I knew the drill for this morning. I had practiced it in my mind, over and over since last evening. And, as the plan required, both my enemy—the passenger I managed to sidle next to; and my environment—Aspen; were as familiar to me as the back of my own hand. Today, I could be sure after the fourteen minute gondola ride up the side of Ajax mountain, the dutiful lifties would be waiting there as the automated doors opened, to graciously grab the skis from their slots outside the cocoon-like metal craft to hand to each of the exiting passengers. It was a very busy morning after a slow season. I knew this one-day rush would place a strain on the attendants who’d gotten used to the slack during the early winter weeks. Sensing how their timing was off, I could just feel how perfect today would be.

As my cab neared the summit, the gondola slowed down on its terminal approach, I saw through the front window that today’s lifties were working briskly, clumsily, to get the patrons out of the cars quickly, without stopping, allowing them to make their way around the bull wheel, back down to transport more eager snow-deprived skiers up the hill from the base. And so the liftie day would go, round and round, without much variation or interest, with just one imperative: get’em out fast, send the cars down faster, repeat. As my own car slowly entered the gondola structure, with my hair and face hidden under my ski mask, hat, and goggles, wearing his old, baggy ski suit and a recently “misplaced” ski ticket, I alighted on the platform and accepted both sets of skis offered by the affable worker. She must have assumed that, like many of the die-hard locals with a season pass, I’d been able to ride up alone and brought along two pairs of skis, one set for variable morning conditions, the other, fat boys, for the accumulating snow expected on the hill this afternoon. I thanked God for the beauty of it all. Sometimes it does seem as if the universe is guiding you and making all things possible.