those wild and crazy colorado nights

Back in 2002, I was a junior in high school, and my church youth group took a trip to Breckenridge, Colorado for a Spring Break ski trip. My school friend Brad came along, and at the week's begin we got on a chartered bus bright and early and rode nonstop until we reached the Rocky Mountains.

As with any youth function, we were supposed to stay true to some supervisory regulations - check in with adults before going anywhere, don't go anywhere without a group, don't leave the hotel at night, and so on. One evening toward the end of the trip, after a long day of skiing, I mentioned to Brad that I had seen a shirt at a gift shop earlier that week and wanted to buy it. After some discussion, we decided to head into town and look for it. It was like 8:30 at night and we weren't supposed to leave, especially without a chaperone. We discreetly left our hotel and boarded the shuttle into town anyway.

As we road into Breckenridge I felt like a fugitive from the law. Here I was - the model kid, the one who always got called on to pray - openly defying authority. The rush of adrenaline was intoxicating.

We got into town and perused the various souvenir shops. Finally we found the t-shirt I desired, and I claimed it as my own. Brad and I walked through the crowds by the bars and restaurants, two wayward high schoolers in a mass of twenty- and thirty-somethings. I felt so mature.

After we'd had our share of the revelry (which really just consisted of us walking up and down the sidewalks and looking at three or four souvenir stores), we caught the bus back to our hotel, eager to sneak back in. The ride seemed to drag on forever, though, and I began to grow worried. Had we caught the wrong bus? Would we end up somewhere far from our destination? Would we have to call our youth minister to come give us a ride? We joked about our plight, but inwardly I was growing scared.

We ended up passing the time more quickly when some half-drunk guy came onto the bus and started chatting with us. He noted our ski passes hanging from lanyards around our necks. "Come on, guys," he hissed, "You don't have to wear those. They make you stand out, man. You gotta get real about the skiing!"

"Oh really?" Brad asked.

"Yeah." The guy snorted and raised his hand. "Imma give you two pieces of advice." He held up one finger. "First of all, don't wear those things. They just brand you as a tourist."

Brad and I nodded and said, "OK." We made eye contact and knew we had the same thought: Well, buddy, we ARE tourists. 

The guy raised two fingers. "Second, if you really want to get good at skiing, you should just take a couple years off and do nothing but ski. Really, man, it's the only way to get good. You're both smart guys, your brains will still be there."

Simultaneously, we said, "Yeah, then we can be like you!" We laughed at ourselves. The guy nodded wisely, convinced he had been a prophetic presence in our lives. About that time we finally recognized our hotel, so we politely said our goodbyes and jumped off the bus.

It was around 11:00 by now. As we walked back into the hotel lobby, my youth minister was walking in. We froze. He looked at us inquisitively. "Where have you two been?" he asked.

Brad and I looked at one another. I took a breathe and said, "Well, I wanted to buy a shirt, so we went into town-"

The youth minister held up his hand. He said, "Stop. I don't want to hear about it." He then walked off on his way, leaving us standing there.


The first moral of the story is this: My high school rebellions were not very exciting.

The second moral of the story is this: When authority figures think you're "the good kid," you can get away with murder.