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She walks around me and to the door.
“Zoey,” I call.
She looks over her shoulder.
“I’m the best instructor you have.”
She cocks an eyebrow.
“Then, prove it.”
She disappears into her office and shuts the door behind her.
I’ll do just that. Game on, Miss Phillips.
I tap the code into the door of cabana number six. The lock releases, and I open it and toss my duffel bag onto the floor.
Scooter’s head pops out two doors down.
“These places are cool as shit, man,” he calls.
The cabanas are tiny, rustic, connected cabins. Each one is four hundred square feet with one bedroom and one bath and a kitchenette. The walls are cedar, and the floor is a rich, dark wood. The bedroom is in the back of the cabana with a queen bed and a small closet and no room for much else. The bath has a toilet, sink, and one-person shower. The living area has a pullout couch, electric fireplace, flat-screen TV, and a walnut wardrobe against one wall. There is a tiny granite breakfast bar with two stools, which separates the living space from the kitchenette. The kitchenette has a small refrigerator, two-burner gas stove with an oven, a microwave, a coffeemaker, and a couple of cabinets. The A-frame ceiling has cool lighting features, making the space feel bigger than it actually is. There is a ladder leading to a loft above the bedroom, but it’s more for show or storage because an adult wouldn’t be able to stand up in it.
There’s a total of ten, and they share a long front porch with handrails and three steps leading up to each dwelling.
There is a wooden bench and rocking chair on the side of the entrance for every cabana.
“Yeah, better than the condos we had to live out of in Colorado,” I reply.
He walks over and takes a look inside my place.
“Ours is configured a little differently, but it’s about the same size,” he says.
“Ours?”
“Clay and I are bunking together. Langford had a mattress put up in the loft, and I’m sleeping up there.”
I met and befriended both Scooter and Clay when I was getting certified in Colorado. They are the definition of adrenaline junkies. Highly skilled, expert-level skier-slash-snowboarders who live for the sport. They chase the snow around the world and take temporary jobs at each spot they land.
“Dude, you’re gonna knock your head off in that little space,” I say.
“Nah, I only need enough height to crawl into bed,” he muses. “Besides, all the cabanas are full, and it was share or drive my RV across the country and park it down in the valley.”
Langford plans to add more staff housing in the spring, but until then, this is what we have to work with, and it’s not bad at all.
“Shit, man, you should have said something. I could have stayed at Mom and Pop’s house, and you could have had this one. I still can if you prefer to have your own space,” I offer.
He slaps me in the chest. “Not necessary. I’d rather have you up here. All I need is a warm place to lay my head. I don’t travel with anything but my equipment and backpack, stuffed with a few clothes, anyway. I like living that simple life.”
Each staff member has their own large locker in the lodge to house our ski equipment and any other personal items we want. There is a central mess hall for us, too, where a warm breakfast and hearty dinner are served each weekday. The lodging and meals are all provided by Misty Mountain Ranch and Ski and are considered part of our contracted salary.
One of the lodge ATVs pulls up in front of the cabanas and parks. Zoey and Joanna hop out and join us.
“Nice ride, ladies,” Scooter calls.
They climb the steps to the cabana to my left, and Zoey opens the door.
“We’re neighbors?” I ask.
