Ellicottville

“I know a little more how much a simple thing like a snowfall can mean to a person.”

— Sylvia Plath

Tuesday morning began by mocking us, bright and sunny as the two oldsters struggled with the consequences of drinking bad red wine at the James Taylor-Jackson Browne concert and then staying up talking until after one in the morning. In Peg's case, our mutual bleary-eyedness was compounded by this crud that had settled into her lungs, leaving her with a croup for the ages that no doubt alarmed the other guests at the Mansion as we all drank bad coffee and dug into our salmon omelettes.

The coffee was so bad, in fact, that we wandered around downtown dodging cable cars in the Honda, eventually finding a coffee shop whose espresso machine left me green with coffee snob envy.

I looked it up online, and for a mere $25,000 we too could have this machine that represents as much art as utility in our kitchen. But we're buying a new tractor, so it'll have to wait.

As we walked through the door of the coffee shop, we found a note in a tidy female hand, announcing that the barista was away and would be back soon. The note was wedged between a mostly full tip jar and plates of homemade pastries and cookies for sale. In other corners of this country, she would have returned from her break to find jar, pastries, and cookies long gone, and caught a glimpse of a couple locals hauling the pricey espresso machine down the street. Such is the northeast that she instead just found two groggy Southerners desperate for a triple shot latte.

The coffee did not disappoint, and we felt ourselves reinflating as we wandered Buffalo trying unsuccessfully to find its vaunted lakefront district. Finally, we gave up and headed south toward Ellicottville, western New York's favorite ski destination.

The drive out of town took us through the lovely little town of Orchard Park, another Norman Rockwell postcard among the dozens that grace the hills here. In this case, the little town prospers not only from its proximity to Buffalo, allowing it to serve as a bedroom community for professionals who work in town, but also from being the home of the Buffalo Bills, who play just across the freeway in a huge stadium that towers over everything in the vicinity.

Have I mentioned the Bills here? That's a whole essay in itself. Folks love the Bills in western New York, and the stylized outline of the beast of the Great Plains is ubiquitous in convenience store windows, on yard flags, and plastered on bumpers and truck windows. Orchard Park is these folks' Mecca.

But not for us, not this sunny, warm Tuesday playing hooky from work. Instead we wandered further south, and noted Bills flags beginning to share space with Trump banners. Buffalo was recently ranked as one of the ten most liberal cities in the U.S. You don't get much of that progressivism out in the hinterland.

Peg's friends in the OR had talked up Ellicottville as worth the trip, a thriving ski destination that bustles on cold December days as families pack the place for a couple days on the slopes.

That's not what we found, however. Instead, it was nearly fifty degrees outside, and the slopes that loom above the town were mostly a depressing brownish-gray, streaked with manmade snow engaged in a losing battle with Mother Nature.

The town was mostly closed, with precious few options to have lunch or a glass of wine that might help shake off the lingering effects of having consumed Barefoot the night before. Two pairs of bewildered retirees, also in search of food, were all that shared the streets with us.

So we wandered around for a while taking in the sights. We found a beautiful old Episcopal Church in an odd architectural style, built in 1837.

The rusty sign out front informed that services were on Saturday evenings, an indicator that there weren't enough Episcopalians up here to support a full-time priest, and some poor vicar schlubs up the hill, probably from Jamestown, to tend to her flock on her day off. Been there, done that.

Downtown also boasted this cool Christmas tree, an homage to the sport that supports the town when the temperatures are a little more seasonal.

Those are skis, in case you missed that detail.

Finally we found a little taqueria that was open, with a young guy tending bar who eased our pain with a New York cab franc (any port in a storm, friend), a salsa sampler for the two of us, and delightful chorizo taco for your author.

Our bartender explained the obvious, that the combination of lack of snow and the return of the pandemic was clobbering business. Ellicottville has a weird relationship with Canadians--there are signs in every window welcoming them back, and historically they've flocked across the border to come here for a few days on the slopes. But on this day one heard not a syllable of the distinctive Canadian dialect, no "eh" or the like. With no snow, and omicron pushing New York back into lockdown mode, they've all just stayed home.

Our new friend went on to note that the snow wasn't just suffering from the unseasonable warmth, but also all the rain. "Rain is a killer for snow." I hadn't thought of that, but then recalled watching the snow that fell in Corning a few days ago wash away into mud over the course of a single rainy afternoon. It must be damned hard to keep a ski resort going under these conditions. It's rained a lot up here apparently, melting the man-made snow as fast as they can blast it onto the slopes.

Feeling alive again after our nutrition break, we crawled back into the Honda and continued south in search of the freeway that would take us home. The two lane road wound through beautiful valleys, the asphalt ribbon lined with the remains of pumpkin patches and indicia of Southern style abject poverty. Junked cars, dead appliances, and even piles of discarded trash decorated most yards of the rusting single-wides and crumbling old farm houses. "Where do these people work?" Peg mused. Probably laid off from the snowless ski resorts would be my guess, economic victims of climate change and our stubborn refusal to address its consequences or causes.

And many yards displayed battered Trump flags fluttering above that dead washer or truck on blocks. The irony was lost on them, I'm guessing.

Soon we were back on the interstate, me cursing the Honda's awful bluetooth system that prevented me from doing a little billable work by returning the calls of the lawyers and clients I'd been stiff-arming on this odyssey. It's probably time to find Peg, and me when I get to leave the house on weekends, a sled with functioning technology.

We're forecast to see 61 degrees today. I plan to split my workday with a walk down the hill to the gym, taking advantage of the bright sunshine and warmth. It ain't right, but I'll take it.