Targhee Nights

In the blistering cold covered by night their glistening eyes gazed at the gleaming white mound.

The photographer knelt in place and a light shone on the frozen powder padding for landing. Cold digits reluctantly curved around the bar tethered to the truck that purred loudly in the quiet sleeping hours.

Ready?

Clear.

Down, down, down the hill they rode. Up, up, up the slope they climbed. Off the ramp into the air they soared. Poof, splat and crunch they fell into the packing snow.

Then the lights dimmed and the air began to bite a warning. A dark figure charged toward them, a headmaster signaling the end of recess. Threats of the law halted the fun and they gathered their gear to leave.

Alone in the cab she shivered and shook for the battery life had been drained.

Outside they stood like a mob and they fire they breathed sent billows of gray to the stars. But the figure held firm and with a stern look shooed them from the winter resort.

The mob grew defiant at best ready to knock on every door. The figure he caved, or faced he the grave, and he offered assistance at last.

A passing lot noticed and stopped holding the life giving cables. Though the grills kissed the helpful fools couldn’t give a spark and they fled ignorant of the crime.

The rescue group arrived with a cheer and succeeded where others had not. The roar of the engine echoed as they piled inside. With frosty smiles they coursed down the mountain and the figure watched their retreat.