...the most hated of the months. No more summer, not quite winter, no tiny patches of snow left to hike to. All we can do is sit around, watch the leaves turn and hope that damn pacific high pressure will break, allowing the Alaskan pipeline to come roaring in announcing the opening of another season. October is like being held in a hostage situation, nowhere to go, nothing to do but sit in quiet reflection, thinking about every move you will make as soon as you get out. Out into the snow, up onto the lifts, the freedom that comes when October finally releases us from its clutches. But those thoughts are simply a daydream, a diversion to keep us from the reality as we sit helpless in this devilish month.
Our favorite stores begin pulling the leftovers from last year out, dusting them off and setting them on the shelves, taunting us with the hopes that the snow will soon fly. Friends begin rummaging through closets and garages selling of whatever they can find that they no longer want, so they can run out and buy more gear. Quivers are reviewed; cuts and additions are made based on front porch weather forecasting to determine if this will be that one epic season. Films and magazines begin showing up in our mailboxes, highlighting the actions of our heroes during the past year, leading the individual to promise him or herself to push their own limits during the next season.
Entering into October, our biological clocks trigger some basic, almost primal, emotion within ourselves drives us into that corner of the garage to begin the sacred ceremony of scraping off the summer coat of wax. Soon the files and iron are excavated out of the toolbox which was buried under a pile of camping and hiking gear. Rust flying and wax smoking, the garage bound mad scientist tromps around in ski boots, brewing up his plan to dominate the mountains. Rose gardens soon turn into beacon practice fields, complete with garden gnome victims strewn about and desperate rescuers probing the soil, trying to find their ceramic friends. Onlookers attempt to make sense of what they are seeing, but most write it off as some kind of inspired lunacy; while a brother in arms looks and understands exactly what is going on. Out from months of hibernation, a skier has awakened, and is hungry.
