Friends tell me I am little strange when it comes to my skiing superstitions, and they are probably right. I have a dream every year in the fall that involves me skiing. Been having it for 20 years or so, and each year the dream is so vivid and real that I actually wake up with cold hands and can smell mountain air. It is never the same, although it usually involves powder and a group of people, some of whom I recognize. I always wake up with a smile on my face, knowing that winter is right around the corner. This year, though, was a little different.

(Fade to the mountains.) I found myself at the top of the most perfect run imaginable. A thousand vertical feet blanketed by two feet of fresh, bone-dry powder, and a sky so blue you would think it came right out of a magazine. I dropped in and floated for what seemed like a lifetime, linking perfect turns for nearly a quarter of the run when it happened. The sky went dark, and I was suddenly knocked off my feet by a flash of neon yellow that came out of nowhere.

Facedown in the snow, I heard the figure’s voice before I saw him. “You poached my line, you moron,” said the recognizable voice. Standing in front of me was Donald Trump, dressed in a neon yellow one-piece, a hot pink head warmer around his head, and mirrored aviator shades covering his eyes. The one-piece was so bright it could be seen from space, and his skis could have easily doubled as water skis in summer. Not a hair was out of place.

“Dude, this run is huge. I am the best skier ever and you totally jacked up my mojo,” he blustered. “I bet you are Canadian. You people come down here with your funny money and ruin all of the untracked snow before us Americans can get on it. You know what I am going to do? Build a wall across the entire U.S.-Canadian border, and make Justin Bieber pay for it.” He took off, hair not moving as he rocketed down the slope.

Shaking off this exchange, I continued down the run, slowly getting back into rhythm. Just as things were feeling good again, I came upon a yard sale victim. One pole was broken, and both 205cm straight skis were augured into the slope. When the skier turned toward me, I nearly jumped out of my skin. Clad in a mink-fringed white outfit that would have been out of place even at Vail was none other than Hillary Clinton. Looking dazed and confused by the epic digger she had just taken, she asked if the Secret Service had arrested the grooming operator who had failed to lay down a perfect swath for her. “Uh, there wasn’t any grooming today. Didn’t you get the snow report email from the mountain?” I asked. “I have no idea,” she said. “You know how may emails I get on my private server? The FBI will just have to figure it out, but I don’t recall getting any snow report.”

I pointed my skis downhill and left her there to sort out Whitewater Part II. In an instant, I found myself at the end of the run near a beautiful lodge. Feeling pressure in my bladder, I made my way to the restroom, only to find it locked. I pulled and pushed, but the door would not budge. I know what you’re thinking: poor guy is going to pee in his sleep. Thankfully, my savior appeared out of nowhere, kicking the door so hard it flew off its hinges. Rushing past me to use the facilities, the blonde/green-haired hero gave me a crazed smile. “Had a few too many PBRs today, bro. Dibs on the first urinal,” said Ryan Lochte.

I woke the next morning with dry sheets and a smile on my face. Yeah, maybe the dream was weird, but damn was the snow good. //

Brad Northrup is a former ski racer, alpine coach, and ski industry professional. He wrote about the people you meet on a chairlift in our March issue. He is currently in the market for a neon yellow one-piece.