The Keystone wine opener

An alpine vignette.

We were sitting at a picnic table at the Crested Butte ski resort in Colorado, our snowboarding jackets, gloves and helmets warming in the sun, craft beer in hand after a morning of good runs. It was cold, but the sun was clear and strong.

A friendly older couple next to us said they lived in Gunnison, just down the highway, and shared one of their favorite tips for the area. “In the summer, when the wildflowers are blooming, split up your group,” the wife said. “One half hikes over the pass from Aspen, the other from where we’re sitting, and you swap car keys. You can meet up somewhere later in a town like Buena Vista.”

“That sounds amazing,” L. said.

The couple went back to skiing, and C. asked the table, “What’s the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to you?”

N. went first, talking about how he was out in Virginia one time on an internship to learn how to design golf courses. There was a three-wheeler there, and everyone was giving it a ride. Some big shots from the golf world were watching. N. had told the group how he grew up in the country and knew everything you could know about an ATV. When it was his turn, he hit a ditch and ate shit in front of everybody.

I hadn’t told my story before — it had only just happened that ski season. A few weeks ago, we were snowboarding at Keystone, sharing a hotel room with a couple of other friends in town from New Orleans. The inn was a classic place. Historic. Right on the mountain. Ski in, ski out. A working fireplace. Old ski boot brand posters on the wall. That Colorado lodge feel that you want.

We’d had decent snow that day. The wind hadn’t blown too much, and it didn’t ice over like it typically does at Keystone. It was nice to be staying the night up there rather than driving back to Denver.

Before our trip, I’d picked up some of those fancy edibles at the dispensary, the Coda Signatures. High-end, 10 milligram truffles that come in tiramisu, burnt caramel and Earl Grey flavors. (This was back when I was writing about weed full-time and liked to shop “for research.”) The mountain must have made us all brave, or the chocolate was just that good, because no one hesitated when I passed around the box.

We had a bottle of champagne while we got ready, then went downstairs for dinner. My edible wasn’t kicking in with my pan-seared trout, but N. said she could see herself from the ceiling, like she was watching us eat via CCTV. The old out-of-body point of view. Our friends, P. and B., were more regular consumers, and both seemed to be getting happier by the minute.

Edibles are such a dumb way to have fun. You never know what they’re going to do. A roll of the dice. Either a great night where you’re laughing, or you’re scared and hate yourself.

We had some ice cream for dessert, then went back to the room to get changed for the hot tub. Someone had brought a bottle of red wine, Austrian, I think, but there was no wine key. We searched our bags and the room. Couldn’t find one, so I called down to the front desk.

“We don’t loan those out,” the young woman said. “They tend to walk away. You can bring it down, and I’ll open it for you.”

I checked before I left — we had enough glasses, just needed the bottle opened. So I grabbed the blaufränkisch or whatever and went to the elevator — the dinging of the doors and floors sounding like carnival music. I felt like I was handling myself well enough, but you never know.

The elevator opened to three workers standing by the front desk. The leader, in her early 20s with large, dark-framed glasses, said, “Hello, how can I help you?”

“We just spoke on the phone. I’m hoping for the wine opener?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “I’m ready. I used to work in fine dining. Give me that.”

I set the bottle on the counter, and she brandished the opener with a practiced flourish. “You have to face the label so the customer knows it’s correct,” she told her colleagues as she spun the bottle and smoothly popped out the small blade on the key to cut away the foil. “Then — ”

She lowered the wine bottle back to the counter and looked at me, the showmanship leaving her face.

“Sir, this is a twist-off.”

Ah, yes. I could see that now. So it was.

I asked, “Do you have any extra towels?”