Josh Mossotti

The Three Horses of Park City

Michelle and I arrived in Park City, Utah for this year’s rendition of our becoming tradition of winterly-scape travels during the holiday season. We set out to scratch a minor checklist of to-dos in preparation for the coming days of scribing the local mountain with shoelace markings. The local outfit of bus operators run the labyrinth of the town’s streets quite frequently, though even to the time of our departure days later the destination of each seemed a mystery, rendering the alternating yellow flashes of titles at it’s head useless aside from detecting its distant approach amidst the low lying clouds blanketing the city. The buses bustled with locals fumbling groceries and ski hungry tourists alike. We made the best of following the likes of similar semi-confused travelers trigger happy with one hand positioned on the rubber line strung from end to end which acted as a delayed braking mechanism for the bus drivers left pedal.
We came about a turn ‘round station near the top of Main Street Park City. Oddly enough, listening to a local inhabitant of this small town pour back answers of where landmark end points are located, proved less helpful than they intended and the rattling off of street names accompanied by waving arm gestures suggested the definition of traveler was omitted from their schools’ teachings. I suppose the term wanderers would best suit us for now. Throughout the ramblings, the word trolley-car was echoed more than others so we patiently held our ears to the strip as the unmistakable ping rang closer. We had come far enough to deductively narrow down our location to one street. The trolley captain welcomed us aboard and set in a Cliff’s notes history of the line. Sooner than expected the car was approaching the end of the street. We considered the help to this point and exited to the plowed sidewalk to supplement our lesson with tactile learnings so that perhaps we could wave about an explanation to other first time explorers of Park City’s historic village.
The downward grade of snow brushed concrete was lined with traditional shops, restaurants and a surprisingly substantial abundance of art galleries. We sifted through the repetitive placement of establishments to break course and placate our appetites with some local cuisine. The concierge from our hotel suggested a handful of decadent dining experiences which conveniently open several hours from our current dilemma. We first stopped in to a diner offering a list of warm delicacies posted in the front window. Upon entry we were greeted with red and white checkered table cloths and a cold breeze that mentally sounded like a record scratching to a stop. The one table of patrons gazed about their food as if sorry they hadn’t abided the same warning signs we were presented. The way I see it we are granted a certain amount of meals in our life. If the process is felt more like a detrimental habit of shoveling thoughtless calories in your gullet by owners who’ve put all the thought of tying their shoes into building a restaurant, this is your place. We aloofly eyed the room as if we had made a wrong turn and made haste to the street leaving only tread marks from our boots as evidence of our mistake.
We followed the slanted street furthermore bound to not repeat the episode. We came about an eatery dodging it’s visibly satisfied patrons like black diamond moguls. The structure looked like a house had been air dropped between two brick buildings and a sign fixed to the shingle siding just below where the roof forms a point read American Bistro. Through further inspection, the only thing American about it was the physical attributes of the layout and that it indeed resides in America. I suppose the proceeding label of Bistro offers haven to any joint with lack of a better marketing term to seduce less traveled goers to sample the exotic gourmets of French culture. I haven’t an alternative labeling technique, but wonder why not call it what it is rather than keeping one foot securely on land as you dip your toe in the water by conjoining the American title to a clearly French restaurant and placing one lonely American hamburger on the menu to authenticate the endeavor. I ordered the burger out of spite.
The food was delicious. I love the warm exhausting feeling of digesting rich buttery sauces. She had the traditional steak frites which is a go-to dish for European migrants to flashback childhood memories and also serves a constant reminder to our relationship which bears a cornucopia of enlightening differences that solidify our binding attraction to one another. Strangely enough the dish most extraordinary was an appetizer of mussels brewed in a broth of yellow curry that stained our fingers like a tattoo. As I imagine French or American foods, curry doesn’t even lay in my periphery. For her, this transcended time and space, as giggles of joy burst from her petite frame while she regressed to of all places a cafeteria during her adolescent education where she coveted this same sauce in a way most people affect their oldest, bestest companions.
The meal was finished and we had to act fast. As the food begins to settle and tranquilize any motivation of continued activities the only recourse is to put the body in motion and speed the metabolism process; harnessing the undertow of sugar as energy to move onward. We took to the streets once more. For me, this seemed like a golden opportunity to walk amongst the persecuted tobacconists and strike up an exquisitely dark and flavorful cigar. In the climate of snow covered terrain, the smell of burning materials caresses the air like a warm hug. By my assessment, I was submitting testimonial purpose to the enriching properties’ of smoke through one of the oldest traditions of man in conjunction with the accepted burning scent of the village’s operations. No one seemed to mind.
The art shops on Main Street number the pines on a spruce tree branch. A recurring theme among them was the overt exclamation that the displayed photographic images have had no post processing whatsoever, which begs the question. Who really cares? If the focus of the art form is measured by this standard above all else, I hope their future of obscured anonymity is embraced. The fact that the composition of these images are put in a competing category and thus mimicking those of treated photos sheds the light to an arrogant, pouting, insecure breed of self congratulatory imbeciles who have diluted themselves to believing that anyone but fellow martyrs gives a damn. The awe of an image is in its composition. When I purchase a framed work to dress the walls of my home its because the elements within the image elicit a potent emotional response of particular liking. If the end result is a purist rendering of an awful picture it’s still an awful piece of work. A likewise counter can be made for a great scene captured by light and treated with a post process. It’s the equivalent of assigning an asterisks to a painter who sketches his subjects prior to laying the base layer of paint [which most renowned artist did and do]. The grandeur lies in end result. The artist who fails to separate themselves from their work at the point of sale, should discontinue projecting apprehensive tendencies as an additional handout and deck the halls of their own house with their own work while basking in the comfort of knowing it’s purity will remain uncompromised forever.
I passed the rowed galleries, leering through the windows as not to offend the bunch with the bountiful pleasures of South American agriculture. There must be a dozen windows smeared with the etchings of my forehead. Just as I had sworn off the lot of them we were stopped dead in our tracks by the wonders of a true traveler by the name Gary Crandall. A piece presented itself inches behind the storefront glass. The photograph spoke amber sepia tones of a western front snap beholding a herd of horses stampeding through their own cloud of turned up dust. This was indeed a remarkable image. The three figures in the foreground exhibit the only visible attributes beset a horse. The remaining throng grows seamlessly into the background concealed in the light kicked dirt that forms a solid white cloud wake. By the perspective of the lens I aught to be purchasing the last photograph of a genuine adventurer who’s final glimpse of life will grace the vacant stucco beside my bedroom. Clearly there was no escaping the marauding posse of majestic animals careening straight towards him. I glanced down at the ten minutes or so remaining the duration of my dark leathery friend debating it’s premature demise to inquire about the pictures parting costs. A voice billowed from the shop’s entrance. “You can bring that cigar in here… You’re driving me crazy with that thing!!” Crisis averted!
“I love the smell of a good cigar. I just wish I had one of those.” It just so happens I had come prepared. I was not bashful to offer a stick to a man who by all accounts of death defying episodes strewn about the store must be a ghost. He obliged the smoky offering with hopes of closing the shop early to acquaint himself further with the cigar. By the looks of this man I can’t imagine I could toss a dart at a map and find a place not holding his footprints. He wore it on his face. His long silver hair atop a six foot frame held stories impossible to be contained within the borders or a wooden picture frame. He manifests a cavalier attitude of someone who has seen more than a single man aught to. It’s easy to find people who have no trouble flaunting their excursions with all the malice of making you feel as though you have done nothing with your life. You can tell a bona fide traveler when they don’t have to say a word about it. We perused the time capsule of work crowding the interior and inquired to whether he was actually dead from some of the perspectives of which there seem to be no viable exits. He was in fact a living incarnation of the wild spirit marked for sale. Funny enough, this might have been the only shop on the street not touting the degradation of post processed photographs, though I am certain his were not treated, in the end I didn’t care.
Gary rolled out a wagon wheel sized supply of plastic bubble wrap, notched the corners with padded cardboard and finalized the transaction. The three horses of Park City and a peek at life seen through the eyes of someone who too dared to side step the beaten path was now in my possession. By the time our feet planted back on Main Street’s pavement our initial destination felt a slight meager in retrospect, but all the more important. Fifty feet further a ski and, for our purposes, snowboard rental shop aimed directly toward the final stretch of Park City’s Mountain Resort. This was it. Inside of our hotel, back the length of our street trek, one trolley ride and a scenic journey on anybody’s guess bus line is an equipment establishment by the same name. We investigated the prison cell sized stockroom prior to leaving the grounds hoping to find articles meant for keeping limbs intact while speeding down a mountain. There are a handful of professions to consider closely when procuring their services; mechanics, parachute packers, babysitters. In my mind ski rental clerks fall in or around this category. The two men operating the store in town looked like they’d outgrown the need for ski lifts long ago. If you have ever wondered while dangling a hundred feet above the snowy face of a mountain just who in their right mind is slaloming the army of trees nestled between giant boulders far, far from the designated runs, look no further. I will tell you one thing; those are exactly the gentlemen I want securing my bindings. Mission accomplished. We were now ready to ring in the holidays the way we’ve become accustomed to. We made our way back to the hotel to wind down the evening in preparation for one of the main reasons we sought out Park City, Utah in the first place, the mountains.
I can’t imagine a slumber in a foreign shelter that can hold a candle to the quality of sleep from a person’s own bed. This experience was no different. The mattress could have been filled with the clouds above while Angels crooned a lullaby, I wasn’t sleeping. We woke the next morning to a greeting card panorama of mountains epitomizing the word winter peering through the window. Downstairs a full breakfast buffet readied the gung-ho troops to invade the snow capped peaks. I was still spewing the savory sauces the previous day’s French feast from every pore of my body. My better half was thrust into this world with a hollow leg meant for storing large quantities of food and lapped the line of chafing dishes leaving no flavors to the imagination. We tightened the facets of our layered getup and shipped out to conquer the Park City mountains. There are three skiable peaks in the area offering a variety of different runs; Park City, The Canyons and Deer Valley. Deer Valley still enforces strict prejudices of oppressive nature toward my fellow snowboard brothers. This uptight bunch has clenched the notion that our unsavory means of traveling down a mountain will surely corrupt the sanctity their pristine group of skiers. The Park City resort was a short deal higher in elevation than The Canyons and given the miniscule amounts of snow dropped over the past few days swayed our judgment to purchase lift passes for its exploration. The initial ascension to the slopes was located directly across Main Street from where our gear was stowed. This lift made no attempts to wind down to suitable rate as the chair swoops beneath your knees and whisks you to higher ground. The chairs swung more than any I have ever encountered and gave no lap bar to fasten yourself to the seat. At the time we were unaware the main gondola for the Park City resort was positioned a mile or so down the road. Similar to most ski bound trips, she made quips about the size of the so-called mountains against her growing up in the Swiss Alps. Park City draws crowds from all over the world, my rebuttal resided in the consensus of the masses. We would simply need to judge for ourselves.
We rocked to and fro for about ten minutes listening to the raging river sounds of the artificial snow makers coating the closed runs. The end of line tossed us from the swing like a bouncer at a pub. We assessed the woven sects of formidable hills and followed the mob to next lift up to the top of Bonanza. I have never felt more confident on a snowboard in my life. I had to learn quickly over the years in order to keep up with my Alps grown Swiss bunny who bounces down as if she was born with legs affixed to this position. The snow was lightly packed with a few inches of turned powder. It certainly wasn’t fresh, but nowhere near the worst we’ve had to endure. The predisposition of being cautious around groups of overly styled youngsters on snowboards gliding past at speeds meant for airline take-offs was far less prevalent than the contemptuous lack of etiquette displayed by the high and mighty skiers. The complaints of mis-translation defining the term mountain from European languages to English were soon quelled. Though the mountain was world apart from the higher peaks on earth, but we managed to have a great time just the same. By the first day we had careened the Park City resort in its entirety minus one hidden gem we spotted the following day.
We retired the late afternoon at our base camp hotel. The steam pluming from the swimming pool below the deck of our room waved an open invitation to sooth our exhausted bodies. I poured a scotch and water, grabbed a stogie, synched the tie on my robe and headed down. The contrast of bitter cold temperatures with the warming sensation of a heated body of water, supplies the affirmation that dreams do come true. This was bliss. We stared off at the previously unfamiliar range that cocoons the resort and watched as the sun never visibly sets but the light of day merely dims to black. The ninety plus degree temperatures of the water were inadequate for Michelle once she discovered the blasting jets of well over one hundred degree heat soaked her skin. There she contracted to a fetal position using her hands to angle the super heated water to specific areas of her lower back. She reminded me of the deep sea communities that huddle around the underwater geysers emitting hot sulfur from volcanic activities below the surface. We collected our clothes and scurried inside to normalize our bodies to ninety-eight point six.
On the first floor of the Hotel Park City is a renowned steak restaurant called Ruth’s Chris. It was one of the deciding factors in our selection of places to stay for the trip. If you have not had the honor of dining at one of their nationwide eateries, you have been depriving yourself of how succulent God made a cow. The waiter courted us with his step by step approach of how they prepare the meat. He describe the thousand plus degree ovens used to seal the flavors of salt, pepper and of course butter that sizzles in a puddle on the plate as it reaches the table. The menu offers several methods of upgrading the taste by adding inhabitants of the sea in a process they coined ‘Oscar-style’ to which a layer crab and béarnaise sauce is bedded on top. For those considering the optional bonus I say this; against all the nature that is American to want more, settle for less and be justly rewarded. This turned out to be a fourteen dollar massacre of this righteous dish. Luckily enough the meat was prepared separately, within one bite of this abomination I holstered the toppings and proceeded in its nude form. It was a mind blowing experience of epic magnitude. It was a perfect finale to a terrific day. We escorted ourselves to our quarters for another restless night.
The next day was to be our second and last day on the mountain. We moved through the routine as if we’d lived it for years. We shifted down the slopes with ease, making fun of the tree lined banks of less carved powder for gratification of weightless motion. It became tiresome and monotonous. In our wearying despair of having successfully mapping the entire resort we notice a path much less traveled. The run appeared to be open, but it aimed perpendicular to any other run from the peak. We took upon the adventurous nature of Gary Crandall and the three horses and decided since we haven’t seen a single person attempt its descent we would query its neglect. There wasn’t a single noticeable track on the run signed Double Jack marked with an ominous black diamond symbol. This was exactly what we were after. The silky smooth ungroomed way immediately grew tumors. If I described a mogul, multiply your mental image a thousand fold. We were excitedly in over our heads. The easy grade sharply dropped vertically downward the distance of a high rise building and the moguls tumbled on its surface. There is only one way down so we braced for impact. We slowly waltzed the face switching edges where mogul meets mogul. To the victor go the spoils. At the bottom of this baby killer bore the fruit of a whole set of obscured empty runs. Given the circumstances of its particular location it is no wonder the lines were accompanied by only a handful of devil-may-care types. We rode the lift in a new direction where the chair exits to a twenty foot nearly straight upright ramp appropriate for speeding jumps rather than delicately lining up your next run. We found solace in a run on the far shoulder called Keystone. This fluffy uncharted trail gave us the privacy to open up a can twirling tricks and catch speeds enough to paste your face back in a smile. We spent the better part of the afternoon in the secluded back regions which was certainly our most memorable time on the mountain. At the bottom of the main resort stemming from Bonanza, we nourished our appetites with standard mountain foods, warm and puréed inside a excavated bowl of bread. The cafeteria was infested with teenagers on an enormous group trip to the same place, most of whom were dressed in street clothes and the girls of fifteen or so flaunted their coming of age with circus amounts of face paint and propped breasts yearning to be seen. The boys were still playing coy perpetuating the situation. The two of us felt old and dirty. I wouldn’t alter the course of life to relive one day of awkward behavior on display with any one of these youngsters. We encored the mountain one last time as if saying goodbyes to the nooks and crevices that filled our trip with joy.
Later that night we landed in a piano bar called Easy Street Brasserie. We’d been told the pianist was able to suffice the demands of any song ever made. The man looked about mid-twenty and was brimming with flair. We were also told the food was of equal spectacle. I wondered while forking the order to my mouth that there must a bin of flavor tucked away in the kitchen because the food was devoid of any. The piano player, though talented and comfortable working a crowd, let his naiveté eek out through his quasi plugs of varying accomplishments. It turns out being not entirely berated by Simon Cowell as a contestant on a televised competition serves as justification of his capacity. There were no cameras, or judges in the room holding the magic key to super stardom. All we ask is that you do your thing and play as you’re driven to. I call home Los Angeles and get enough self promotional garbage on a daily basis that is what I am currently vacating. Between the food and the pianist the luster dulled. We left with a eye squinting interaction between the waitress and my companion regarding a request for change back on our check which the waitress conveniently mis-read on appeal twice leaving her with an unduly gracious amount as a tip. It was a laughable exchange as a spectator. We bused back to the hotel for our final night in Park City.
The morning was crawl. Our car service was scheduled to pick us up at noon to currier us to the airport. We spent an hour in the hotel fitness center proceeded with a buffet meal to get us through the travel back home. The driver showed up on time and we boarded the vessel bidding farewell to Park City. The driver who recently migrated from Moldova was quick to strike up conversation. The man was very well educated and well traveled. He spoke of his degrees in mechanics and engineering in Britain and how that accompanied by his fluency in a languages totaling the fingers on both my hands doesn’t generate the friction in American society he might have hoped. I found it humorous to listen as his judgment of American culture, politics and values contradicted the fact that he was now living in Salt Lake City, Utah. When I pressed him on the matter he explained the quality of life ascertainable within the United States exceeds the prosperity of his life remaining in Europe even as a driver. I decided to leave the point as an inevitable discovery that despite the faults in our culture, politics and values the possibilities of the American dream far out way his own admittance of lacking promise in other places. Surely something resembling a positive notion could stem from the way America operates otherwise he wouldn’t be here, perhaps he aught to discuss these things. We made the flight on time and within an hour and a half we were home.
As I take the events of the trip to heart, I come to terms with my own and likely most people’s needs to visit other cultures and witness the almighty beauty that life has to offer. I plant a nail in the stucco beside my bedroom and level the framed landscape of Gary Crandall and the three horses of Park City as a lingering reminder that though our adventure might not seem as courageous and unique as the collection of memories captured in the gallery of his Main Street shop, he too has a quiet tale of monotony required to run his store. We all need to fulfill the desire of exploration and give accounts that there are places on earth to be seen and satisfy our innate love of adventure and we are already eagerly awaiting our next.