The RSDP (the red snake dance party)

Forward. Back. Forward. Back. He craned his neck out the driver-side window and peered down at the Ford Focus that obstructed his bright red, souped-up F-350. Forward again, back once more and he was out, finally. He rolled the window up and yelled a muffled version of “fuuuuuuun” at the windshield, his body convulsed with rage. I was standing in my ski boots, hidden behind a car peeing in the snowbank of the parking lot, a pamplemousse flavored crispy in my left hand. I looked through two panes of tinted glass and although I knew the optics were weird, almost creepy, I couldn't help but stare. ‘What’s happening in his world that— on this fresh, sparkling winter ski day, nine inches of new-new over night— he is so enraged?’ I felt for him.

He b-lined through the corridor of Alta’s GMD lot and honked at a gal who, like him, was waiting to exit. He accelerated past her, fifty yards or so then came to a halt. I took another sip of my La Croix, slushy from the cold, zipped up my ski pants, and uttered to nobody, ‘This is not gonna be good.’

To anyone unfamiliar with the Cottonwood Canyons ski scene: traffic is, umm, bad. For everyone, yes, but especially the man whom I was watching in the large, large— and if I could use an antiquated term— pimped-out lifted six-wheeler. His horn was going off and it was obvious he had met his maker: The Red Snake.

Veteran riders in the Salt Lake Valley know about ‘the snake’. And know to plan for it (quality podcast, good company, and proper expectations). I don’t wanna assume here, but my hunch is that the impatient man did not, in fact, plan for the snake. I sensed that, in that moment, he was trapped within seductive hiss of her alluring ways. I, for one, felt for the guy. I wanted to invite him to come grill with us, chill with us, kick-back, dance for an hour and still make it down the canyon around the same time. I, of course, couldn’t tell him this, wouldn’t tell him this— as he likely would have told me to shove my seltzer-water and preppy attitude up my ass.

However, if you’re out there, to the guy in the loud, fourteen mpg F-350, I want you to know: you’re invited next time. Everyone is.

We are hosting our second RSDP (of many to come) next weekend. It’s a potent antidote to being stuck in traffic. And yes, that line is intended as a metaphor.

Forward. Back. Forward. Back. He craned his neck out the driver-side window and peered down at the Ford Focus that obstructed his bright red, souped-up F-350. Forward again, back once more and he was out, finally. He rolled the window up and yelled a muffled version of “fuuuuuuun” at the windshield, his body convulsed with rage. I was standing in my ski boots, hidden behind a car peeing in the snowbank of the parking lot, a pamplemousse flavored crispy in my left hand. I looked through two panes of tinted glass and although I knew the optics were weird, almost creepy, I couldn't help but stare. ‘What’s happening in his world that— on this fresh, sparkling winter ski day, nine inches of new-new over night— he is so enraged?’ I felt for him.

He b-lined through the corridor of Alta’s GMD lot and honked at a gal who, like him, was waiting to exit. He accelerated past her, fifty yards or so then came to a halt. I took another sip of my La Croix, slushy from the cold, zipped up my ski pants, and uttered to nobody, ‘This is not gonna be good.’

To anyone unfamiliar with the Cottonwood Canyons ski scene: traffic is, umm, bad. For everyone, yes, but especially the man whom I was watching in the large, large— and if I could use an antiquated term— pimped-out lifted six-wheeler. His horn was going off and it was obvious he had met his maker: The Red Snake.

Veteran riders in the Salt Lake Valley know about ‘the snake’. And know to plan for it (quality podcast, good company, and proper expectations). I don’t wanna assume here, but my hunch is that the impatient man did not, in fact, plan for the snake. I sensed that, in that moment, he was trapped within seductive hiss of her alluring ways. I, for one, felt for the guy. I wanted to invite him to come grill with us, chill with us, kick-back, dance for an hour and still make it down the canyon around the same time. I, of course, couldn’t tell him this, wouldn’t tell him this— as he likely would have told me to shove my seltzer-water and preppy attitude up my ass.

However, if you’re out there, to the guy in the loud, fourteen mpg F-350, I want you to know: you’re invited next time. Everyone is.

We are hosting our second RSDP (of many to come) next weekend. It’s a potent antidote to being stuck in traffic. And yes, that line is intended as a metaphor.

Forward. Back. Forward. Back. He craned his neck out the driver-side window and peered down at the Ford Focus that obstructed his bright red, souped-up F-350. Forward again, back once more and he was out, finally. He rolled the window up and yelled a muffled version of “fuuuuuuun” at the windshield, his body convulsed with rage. I was standing in my ski boots, hidden behind a car peeing in the snowbank of the parking lot, a pamplemousse flavored crispy in my left hand. I looked through two panes of tinted glass and although I knew the optics were weird, almost creepy, I couldn't help but stare. ‘What’s happening in his world that— on this fresh, sparkling winter ski day, nine inches of new-new over night— he is so enraged?’ I felt for him.

He b-lined through the corridor of Alta’s GMD lot and honked at a gal who, like him, was waiting to exit. He accelerated past her, fifty yards or so then came to a halt. I took another sip of my La Croix, slushy from the cold, zipped up my ski pants, and uttered to nobody, ‘This is not gonna be good.’

To anyone unfamiliar with the Cottonwood Canyons ski scene: traffic is, umm, bad. For everyone, yes, but especially the man whom I was watching in the large, large— and if I could use an antiquated term— pimped-out lifted six-wheeler. His horn was going off and it was obvious he had met his maker: The Red Snake.

Veteran riders in the Salt Lake Valley know about ‘the snake’. And know to plan for it (quality podcast, good company, and proper expectations). I don’t wanna assume here, but my hunch is that the impatient man did not, in fact, plan for the snake. I sensed that, in that moment, he was trapped within seductive hiss of her alluring ways. I, for one, felt for the guy. I wanted to invite him to come grill with us, chill with us, kick-back, dance for an hour and still make it down the canyon around the same time. I, of course, couldn’t tell him this, wouldn’t tell him this— as he likely would have told me to shove my seltzer-water and preppy attitude up my ass.

However, if you’re out there, to the guy in the loud, fourteen mpg F-350, I want you to know: you’re invited next time. Everyone is.

We are hosting our second RSDP (of many to come) next weekend. It’s a potent antidote to being stuck in traffic. And yes, that line is intended as a metaphor.

Forward. Back. Forward. Back. He craned his neck out the driver-side window and peered down at the Ford Focus that obstructed his bright red, souped-up F-350. Forward again, back once more and he was out, finally. He rolled the window up and yelled a muffled version of “fuuuuuuun” at the windshield, his body convulsed with rage. I was standing in my ski boots, hidden behind a car peeing in the snowbank of the parking lot, a pamplemousse flavored crispy in my left hand. I looked through two panes of tinted glass and although I knew the optics were weird, almost creepy, I couldn't help but stare. ‘What’s happening in his world that— on this fresh, sparkling winter ski day, nine inches of new-new over night— he is so enraged?’ I felt for him.

He b-lined through the corridor of Alta’s GMD lot and honked at a gal who, like him, was waiting to exit. He accelerated past her, fifty yards or so then came to a halt. I took another sip of my La Croix, slushy from the cold, zipped up my ski pants, and uttered to nobody, ‘This is not gonna be good.’

To anyone unfamiliar with the Cottonwood Canyons ski scene: traffic is, umm, bad. For everyone, yes, but especially the man whom I was watching in the large, large— and if I could use an antiquated term— pimped-out lifted six-wheeler. His horn was going off and it was obvious he had met his maker: The Red Snake.

Veteran riders in the Salt Lake Valley know about ‘the snake’. And know to plan for it (quality podcast, good company, and proper expectations). I don’t wanna assume here, but my hunch is that the impatient man did not, in fact, plan for the snake. I sensed that, in that moment, he was trapped within seductive hiss of her alluring ways. I, for one, felt for the guy. I wanted to invite him to come grill with us, chill with us, kick-back, dance for an hour and still make it down the canyon around the same time. I, of course, couldn’t tell him this, wouldn’t tell him this— as he likely would have told me to shove my seltzer-water and preppy attitude up my ass.

However, if you’re out there, to the guy in the loud, fourteen mpg F-350, I want you to know: you’re invited next time. Everyone is.

We are hosting our second RSDP (of many to come) next weekend. It’s a potent antidote to being stuck in traffic. And yes, that line is intended as a metaphor.