Dave Dubuque: The ‘D’ word, a mark of pride for the dedicated skier

What did you just call me?

It’s a word with two seemingly contradictory meanings.

In its most common usage, it’s defined as a sleazy or disreputable person, who sensible people would prefer to avoid.

Less well known outside of the realm of outdoor adventurists, it’s a person who eschews normal employment, living cheaply in order to devote the majority of their time to doing what they love.

And, if you’re still skiing this time of year – even if, sadly, you’re saddled with a career and responsibilities – it’s a label that you’re coming dangerously close to wearing.

“You’re still skiing?” asked the checker at my local supermarket, who has slowly accumulated a working knowledge of my circumstances over the course of years of small talk.

Maybe it’s not so strange that she’d ask. By the look of my local hill last weekend, the majority of people who consider themselves skiers or snowboarders seem to have forgotten that taking part in what may be the highest purpose of the human body is still a possibility.

All that’s left on the hill are the familiar faces of fellow addicts. People I see on the hill every single day that I’m up there – but who might be on the far end of a long January lift line – are now the only people I see.

It’s not hard to understand why most folks have hung it up by now. The valley is free of snow. There’s hiking. And yard work. Golf courses are opening. Kids’ sports schedules eat into weekend time. There are 20 million things to do. Plus, it just doesn’t feel much like winter anymore. Unless you’re obsessed, it’s easy to forget that skiing is even an option.

The local hill, which, due to the hard realities of the human condition, is compelled to run on more than just rainbows, daisies and stoke, knows this phenomenon well. The operating schedule is down to five days a week. Night skiing is two weeks gone. The secondary lodge is closed for the season. The lifts’ lower stations are manned by a single employee. Parking lots that only three weeks ago were overflowing, requiring a small army of attendants to maintain order, are sparsely populated.

For those lucky enough to have the time, it’s a beautiful season to be on the hill.

In the springtime, the atmosphere is turbulent and unsettled. A Saturday spent skiing on soft corn snow might give way to a Sunday hooting and hollering on slopes covered in several inches of fresh.

Legs and lungs that suffered and strained during the early season’s first powder days are ready to pound out top-to-bottom runs without a trace of tiredness.

Mornings are spent leisurely. No need to race to the hill to get a prime parking spot, to get to the front of the line, to gobble up all the fresh tracks: The runs need time to soften in the sun. By the time they’re good to go, the warmth has loosened muscles and evaporated the last traces of worry. Buttery soft snow only makes matters worse. It’s a vicious cycle of relaxation. Terrible, really.

It was on a day like this that the label was applied to me. With a 9-to-5 of my own, I felt undeserving. Like knowing three chords and being called Coltrane. But when skier Bill, one of the crew of regulars, placed me in the same category as Rasta Ryan, who’s always on the hill, I couldn’t help but beam.

As I skied up to him, crazy-eyed from bliss, he turned to me and proclaimed for all the mountain’s nine patrons to hear:

“You’re such a dirtbag.”

I’ve never been prouder.