Getting Sick in Silence
By COLBY NIELSEN

Dear Mondo Chowder,

While I was walking through a fresh September snowfall this morning I heard an elk bugle, birds singing, and the soft ripple of a creek. It brought me back to the tipping point in our relationship last winter. I never told you about it, but in hindsight I should have seen the signs. There is a tragic flaw in our relationship I need to address in this letter to you, my friend and accomplice.

In the beginning you showed up with a new mp3 player—I gave it no thought. After all, I too have dabbled with soundtracks for my powder days. There is some great joy derived from dropping a knee to a little good funk. I felt as if I were wearing my best banana hammock on the dance floor, grinding with some fly ladies. Yes, it is OK to listen to music and ski.

The camaraderie found in conversation on the chairlift started to fade between us. On several occasions I was trying to tell you stories only to realize halfway through the ride, I was merely talking to myself. After the first couple of days spent fiddling with your portable music device to accommodate my babble, you were finally able to turn the music on and off quickly. This learning period didn't bother me. I didn't even mind throwing you non-verbal gestures to alert you of approaching conversation.

It is often said that there are no friends on powder days, but I am a generous person when it comes to sharing good lines with my friends. One day when we were out picking through the crud, searching for fresh gnar, I found two lines. I turned to alert you, but you couldn't hear me. I saw the line you took and let me tell you, mine was far superior brother. You missed out buddy. That didn't bother me either, nor did the donning of the new full face helmet. Honestly, who doesn't want to be dope on the slope?

I didn't even mind the frequent use of "sick" or "brah." I saw my fledgling Mondo beginning to take flight with the sickest brahs of them all.

I'll tell you what it was Mondo, it was a sacred spot. We're talking about drawing a line in the sand over which you do not—Mondo, turn off the music and listen. I took you to a place I grew up skiing, an amazing burn area. I like hiking in silence, so your music didn't bother me then. No, it was not until we were about to throw on the shred sticks. The wind picked up, and my favorite song came on: the eerie screams, the howls and whistles of black sticks in a white landscape. I tried to share one of the few things on this planet that means so much to me, but you didn't even turn off your music. Are these grounds for terminating a beautiful relationship?

I would hate to end this partnership, especially after your acquisition of a new sled. Perhaps I was wrong to bring this trip on you, but we need to communicate. Sometimes the music needs to be turned off. I hope you understand brah—call me a hippie if you must, I don't mind. Perhaps you should spend some time in silence this winter, and then this letter might make sense. Just know Mondo, music or no, I hope to plunder the chunder with you again.

Your Friend,
Charles R. Nuggin

P.S. I don't want an iPod for Christmas.


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