Mary Jane’s Intimate Secrets
Like the greatest tall tales, I first learned of Mary Jane’s huts over après pizza while watching a storm roll in. David “Colonel” Sanders and I were marooned on the fun side of Berthoud Pass in a time before cell phones, when life still held mystery and wonder. The fact that we had bummed a ride to the hill with older friends already made us feel cool. After re-hashing the day’s exploits, we turned to those subjects that felt most profound. Which run would we ski first on a powder day? Which girl held the ultimate enchantment over us (and did she ski)? How did we poach the Arlberg Club?
Then, as if by ski-lore gravity, everyone leaned in, in anticipation of something even more important than girls and John Elway and Greg Stump.
“We found a new hut today,” the Colonel told me. “Built into a cave. At the top of a cliff.”
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