Cold days, warm thoughts

Three images: I’m skiing through a glade of trees at the base of Jackson Hole, Wyo., as a small herd of moose appears to my right -- they exhale huge jets of steam from their nostrils. Driving above Fernie, Canada, early one February morning, a dozen big horn sheep amble across the road. In Alaska a grizzly bear straight out of hibernation grabs his/her feet and slides 2,000 feet down a snowfield on its rear end. For an L.A. boy frequently caught in traffic, those euphoric episodes resonate. They are the winter wonders of the world.

My father, Murray, who learned to ski while on leave in the Navy during WWII, first took me to Mammoth Mountain in 1963 when I was 5 years old. The drive lasted half the day. When we first encountered snow on the road above Bishop, I begged Murray to pull over and let me touch it. I was surprised by the texture; I had expected something soft. It was crunchy and granular, a little unstable. The snow was dirty, splattered with black mud dots from cars and snowplows. I threw a snowball at our car and it exploded just like the cherry-flavored snow cone I heaved at the back wall of my first-grade classroom after school.

Forty years later, I continue to trek up to Mammoth, and my awe of snow and mountains is even greater. I’m unable to sleep the night before a ski trip. I set the alarm for 2:30 a.m., but my hummingbird heart barely lets me doze. In bed I’m in a state of high alert, imagining my alpine future, transported from bone-dry Los Angeles 300 miles north to Mammoth. Opening day for most resorts is Thanksgiving. Mammoth traditionally kicks things off weeks before Colorado and Utah (this year it’s today), unless early snowfalls permit an even earlier opening date (e.g., blessed El Ninos).

By 3 a.m. on opening day, Hirsch and Carl, my caffeinated ski posse, are assembled in vehicle, zombie-groggy, primed for action or car sleep. At sunrise, we’re eating cold Casa Bianca pizza in the Mojave Desert. At 7:40 a.m., we pull into Mammoth Lakes, lug all gear into cabin, pretend to stretch muscles, dress pronto like instant astronauts (we all wear helmets now), suck down more espressos, hoist skis over shoulder and march to the hill, first in line for Canyon Express. Thirty minutes pass, a huge line forms behind us, as the lifties swat each chair with a plastic bat to bang last night’s snow off the frigid seat cushions. How rare to see so many competitive men and women coexisting, all happy about the same thing, anxious and pushy of course, but ridiculously cheerful about a fundamental element, the accumulation of snowflakes.

The first run of the season is so surreal (do we remember how to do this?), but it all comes back. Hirsch and Carl, both ex-racers, get in a tuck and beeline to the chair that will take us to favorite secret spots. I follow. A few chairlifts later we are perched above Dragon’s Tail, a steep, tree-protected powder reserve. Fresh snow is sexy. It teases you with a come-hither sparkle. Looking down through dense fir trees, we each pick out our lines, and in a spontaneous eager fit we all drop in at the same time and rip it up.

My father and I are lifelong atheists, but when we see snow slowly falling from the sky, fat perfect flakes landing on our shoulders with the gentlest, most discreet fluff-fluff sound, we become recklessly devout. We love snow. When Murray turned 70, he retired from skiing, but as his 77th birthday approaches, he’s threatening to demo some fatties. “I might be slow walking up a flight of stairs,” he says, “but I can ski down anything.”

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Benjamin Weissman’s collection of short fiction is titled “Dear Dead Person.”

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Mammoth fun

Where: Mammoth Lakes

When: Today through June

Info: (800) MAMMOTH, or www.mammothmountain.com