Is It True You Can't Go Home Again?

You can't go back home...to a young man's dreams of glory and of fame ... .'

--Thomas Wolf

Last summer, when the fear and uncertainty of the Great Pandemic of 2020 was at its strongest and the turning tide was no where to be seen, my two sons decided to defer their freshman year of college to 2021 when life was presumed to return to normal. (As if life, or especially freshman year of college, has ever been "normal.") One son took a job in his hometown of Birmingham, Alabama, focused on his interest in history by helping a historical cemetery organize and archive a hundred year's worth of documents. My other son also took a job close to his heart—the great outdoors—by working as a lift operator ("liftie") in Breckinridge, Colorado. Hamp started in November and by February, I must sheepishly admit, I still had not visited him. 

My hard-working liftie.

But that changed when I booked a hotel room and a plane ticket and made my way to Breckinridge a few weeks ago. The plan was food (obviously), his birthday, and skiing. 

About the skiing....

The last time I skied was in 2001—almost twenty years to the date that I stepped off the plane in Denver. At the time, I was a pretty avid skier and not too bad at it, if I must say. So what happened? Kids. Career. Inertia. 

I grew up in the South. I didn't grow up in a skiing family. My interest in skiing, oddly, coincided with my nascent interest in James Bond movies. Skiing and Bond have gone hand in hand since the beginning. In the summer of 1981, when I was between fifth and sixth grade, I saw For Your Eyes Only, part of which takes place in the Italian Alps. It all seemed so elegant, with all the dining al Fresco (at least until Bond interrupted). That movie also had one of the best ski chase scenes of any Bond film. That fall, I discovered that I wasn't the only one enamored with the glamor of skiing. My friend Don and I dreamed of the day when we would go skiing with expensive clothes and glamorous girls in tow. We both had ski jackets that, because we lived in the South, were worn maybe two or three days a year. Before Don and I could take off on our grand ski tour, however, I moved away to the suburbs of Washington, DC.

Living "up North" was when I finally got the opportunity to ski on a regular basis. In high school, we would pile into our cars on cold, dark Saturday mornings and head up to the slopes in Pennsylvania, West Virginia, and Western Maryland. To save money, we packed our own gourmet lunches: Bologna sandwiches, Doritos, Oreos. And of course, there was always a bota bag or a flask for some liquid courage for the black diamonds. 

The skiing adventures continued into college, but the food choices, sadly, remained the same. One time, on the way back from Snowshoe in West Virginia, our pickup truck skidded on an icy road and hit a car in the oncoming lane. No one was seriously injured, but my friend Brian, who was driving, broke his wrist. We spent the night in a very small town called Franklin, where they had to open the clinic to treat Brian's arm. To this day, I recall a local asking me if I knew who the town was named for. Thinking this must be a trick question, I slowly answered, "Benjamin Franklin?"  He looked at me as if I had just won the Nobel prize. We spent the night at the local Holiday Inn. Dinner came from a diner next door. My dad once said that, when in doubt, order a ham sandwich because you can't screw it up. Well dad, I gotta call B.S. on that one. That diner in Franklin, WVa, in the winter of 1989 somehow figured out to royally screw up the simple, yet noble, ham sandwich. 

Other trips included Sunday River in Maine for Spring Break 1992--I know, wrong direction. I don't remember what we ate, but we did consume a lot of frozen mudslides. 

So....back to Breckinridge.

I arrived on a Friday evening, so it was too late to ski. I was also tired and not up to going out to dinner. The answer was easy: pizza. My son recommended Luigi's. He said it was very good, but out of his price range. Hampton learning the value of a dollar!? At this point, I couldn't deprive him because the only person who loves pizza more than I is Hamp. And it was worth the COVID-19 wait. The only way I could've gotten a more authentic NY-style pizza was by airplane. 

The next day, Saturday, was when the rubber hit the road; the big test; the moment of reckoning. This was either going to be like riding a bike or a riding in an ambulance. Thankfully, it was the former. I even looked pretty good, thanks to some slick ski clothes from some friends who live in Colorado. Don from sixth grade would have been impressed.

Dinner that night was at Empire Burger, a place where the burgers live up to the name. I mean, if you can't get good beef out West, then you are, quite frankly, incompetent. Hamp got the double cheeseburger because this place was a bit of stretch for his liftie income. I warned him; he paid the price. 

Sunday was Hamp's birthday. We had dinner reservations for 8:45, but after a full day of skiing, neither one of us wanted to wait that late. Instead, we headed to a Vietnamese restaurant, Peak of Asia, that Hamp recommended. He had heard it was good, but too rich for his wallet. (Notice a pattern here?) The pho was excellent, but the highlight was when a co-worker who worked there greeted Hamp and gave him a birthday present. The spring roll also had a lighted match in it. We all sang happy birthday. 

Lunch of Champions  

Monday, Hamp had to work. I was on my own. Maybe because I wasn't concerned about looking like a doofus in front of my 19-year old son, I really let it rip. I had my best day of the whole trip. I tore it up, hitting a breathtaking 26 MPH on a blue! I rewarded myself with a hot dog and a beer at 11,000 feet. At the end of the day, however, I was pooped. Eating out that night was a no-go—pizza again.  

Tuesday. My last night in Breck. For the previous four nights, I had been trying to get reservations at Mi Casa, the local Mexican restaurant that gets great reviews. It didn't happen.  We found the next best thing at Sancho Taco, a Mexican street taco restaurant with awesome Margaritas and authentic street tacos. I don't know about Mi Casa, but it would be hard to beat this place. Go with the fried chicken taco!

The next morning, Hamp had to head back to work, and I had to head back to Atlanta. As we said goodbye, I could tell that my son was not looking forward to Hot Pockets and microwaved hotdogs. And while he will roll his eyes at half the crap his old man says, he certainly appreciates the decent meals he gets. Yeah, this was probably the best eatin' I've had on a ski trip. Maybe one day, when Hamp's been off the slopes for many years, he can return the favor with his kids.

And yes, you can go home again if you know how to read a trail map.