One minute last Friday afternoon I'm happily walking along Preble Street heading for my center of the universe, my oft times raison d'etre, Bleacher's, and a draft and a late lunch (early dinner?).

Happy because everyone in my office has bailed out early because of the storm. Ecstatic because, yes, it is still snowing to beat the band. Snowing that awesome fluffy snow that makes for killer skiing.

The next minute my feet go out from under me and my arms are flailing wildly in the air. And then, wham! I take a mondo digger on the sidewalk, smashing my right knee into the pavement.

The same right knee I whacked hard while descending Bald Mountain in Camden a week ago. And the same knee I will need for skiing on Saturday.

Not good.

I hobble to Bleacher's, take my seat at the bar and consider my condition (and the beer and food menu, of course). And over the course of the next several hours I tilt back a couple of pints of liquid medication. The throbbing in knee decreases dramatically.

Go figure.

It isn't until I spin around and hop off the stool to leave that the pain reappears. Clearly further care is needed. I stop at Hannaford for a six on the way home.

For medicinal purposes.

Sunday River is on the docket for Saturday morning. Morning being a relative term, it's 10ish before all the gear is rummaged up (first time out is always hell) and tossed in and on top of the car.

I swear a season pass makes you lazy (lazier?).

A crack of noon start. The sun is out and the snow looks fine on the lift up from South Ridge Lodge. We burn down Right Stuff. Awesome. Ride the Locke Triple for runs down T-2 (best snow on the mountain), Sunday Punch, Monday Mourning.

Bum knee? I ain't got no stinkin' bum knee. Well, maybe I do, but I'm not gonna let it bother me today. I may hobble into work Monday, but I'm skiing today. Dammit.

It's Barker Lodge for an obscenely expensive, but very tasty, burger and fries. Two bites, maybe three. No more burger. A Redhook ESB helps wash down the fries. The singer at the bar strikes up his guitar and belts out some some Jimmy Buffett tunes. I am transported to Margaritaville.

Out of the tropical trance and back to the slopes. American Express and Risky Business off the Spruce Peak chair. Nice. Very nice. Ditto. More runs off the Super Quad. A cold finish in the steely gray of late afternoon on T-2.

It's Liam's on the access road for apres-ski. Never been. Inside we find a $2 Rolling Rock, some weird though strangely riveting but ultimately stupid reality show on the tube, and a nice cadre of locals.

On to the Old Sudbury Inn in Bethel village and a descent to the basement bowels of Sud's Pub, THE place to go before all the other swanky stuff invaded the area. And still my favorite. Stone walls, no windows, real old-style pub warmth, 29 beers on tap, outstanding pizza, fun locals.

So good I swear the gates of heaven might be right next door.

Overcome with that awesome apres-ski R&R feeling we settle into our chairs. Gwen, our lovely waitress, takes care of our every need. We depart satisfied and happy. The weekend has come full circle. Happy hour, ski, more happy. Bum knee and all.

Life is hard.


Bright sun at the top of Right Stuff.

Cruising Lazy River.

Late afternoon shadow on Monday Mourning.

Late afternoon sun over the Presidentials.

Thumbs up for good skiing.