I snowboard at a little mountain that’s barely 15 minutes from home. Sure, there’s a bigger one and an Intrawest resort about 45 minutes away. But I can be on the snow in less than 30 minutes so I can get in an extra hour of riding. In the night, I can ride until the lift stops at nine and still be home and in bed at a reasonable hour. Oh, and my season lift ticket is less than half that of the Intrawest ticket.
Anyway, a boarding friend of mine was teasing me the other day about riding on the smaller mountain. I asked him, “When was the last time you rode?” “Last year,” was his reply. It’s unfortunate for him that the “big mountain” blocks his view the fun to be had on a smaller hill or even in the back yard rise (we built a small practice rail in our yard this winter…).
I just finished reading a great piece in Mar/April issue of fly fishing magazine American Angler that relates to this very topic. Titled, “Just an Average Day,” it was written by William Tapply, author of several mystery novels including, most recently, One-Way Ticket.
I plucked four key sentances from the piece. Imagine your sport when Bill writes “water” or ”fishing” and you’ll get the full flavor (without the fishy taste) of an “average” enthusiast’s passion.
“Unless you fish only a few times a year, pretty soon the specific memories of any particular typical day on the water begin to blur and mingle with all the other more-or-less average days until you’re left with a fuzzy kind of happy feeling about fishing.”
“It’s the aberrant, non-average times that provide us with our most vivid, specific memories, whether it’s catching the biggest, or the most, trout of our life, or getting skunked in a drenching rainstorm, or falling out of the boat……”
“What’s ‘average,’ of course, is relative to our expectations, which we subconsciously – or maybe consciously – adjust for the water where we’re fishing, the time of year, the weather forecasts, and the reports from the locals.”
“If I had the time and money to travel the world questing for the best fishing it had to offer, maybe I’d look at it differently, but I do sometimes find myself feeling sorry for these guys who don’t really understand what ‘average’ means and wouldn’t know how to have fun flicking an Elk-Hair-Caddis onto the currents of a little New Hampshire stream where a twelve-incher is considered a pretty nice fish.”