Every morning Cartwright would be up way too early, claiming bluebird. It only took us one we-really-need-to-get-some sleep day to figure out that when you’re from Whistler, anything other than the Apocalypse is pretty much a bluebird day; rain, sleet, silver dollar-sized flakes, whatever.
It’s now down to even teams of two, Kingwill and I, and Jorli and Michalchuck. We actually rode the day before yesterday, and got suckered by a couple shifting holes in the cloud cover. Weather seems to just swirl around down here.
Now we’re faced with the ever-present debate of when to pull the plug and head for potentially better weather–up north to Valle Nevado, or over to Argentina. It could be sunny tomorrow. Right: this shit always happens to me.
So, on top of doing laundry, fielding the questions of curious Chilean riders, playing with Eduardo’s pet turtles, and dancing the night away with twelve year old “hotties” we wait for our turn in the sun.
Our one remaining hope in the meantime is that this weekend’s holiday, the Chilean equivelent of the Fourth of July, will bring in some distractions/attractions to ease the pain of no shots, and no riding. Not to mention we got ousted from the Gran Hotel because of the holiday weekend. The hotel was full, but we had a wierd feeling they were happy to see us go.
You really outta see Kingwill on the dance floor. His shit’s ridiculous.