A dear friend, known to his social media following as Homie Rafiki, recently called me from Montana. We caught up as traveling dirtbags do, asking what the other had been up to, where we were, and where we might be headed next.
I’d been renovating a house in Asheville and trying to get in shape for springtime climbing. He’d been in Big Sky, busy building terrain parks on the ski hill, spending time with the girl who sets his soul on fire, and figuring out which stretches of whitewater he’d hit this coming summer.
Being the hippie dreamer and armchair philosopher he is, HR shifted the conversation to recent news concerning the government’s plan to share their UFO knowledge with the public.
He swelled with excitement, fantasizing about rolling a joint, getting high, and giggling with ET. Surely, the aliens would share some ideas that he hadn’t yet considered. But he wondered: what would they think of us— the river guides, ski bums, and miscreants of the world?
It set me to thinking.
If you haven’t paid attention to the events of the past year, allow me to clue you in on something: the aliens are for sure coming. It’s a matter of when, not if. With that comes questions we’re all asking.
Will they bring a message of peace?
Intergalactic war?
What do they think of we simple humans?
Will they walk or talk like us?
Should we try to sleep with them?
I can’t answer all those questions. But, if they look and sound anything like that 9-foot-tall blue chick from Avatar, the answer to the last one is unequivocally, absolutely, yes.
Every dude who puts turmeric in his coffee, poses as a UFC analyst cause he’s done Jiu Jitsu twice, and listens to a certain bald podcaster religiously, seems to think the aliens are bringing supreme knowledge here that will alter the future of mankind for the better.
If that’s the case, and they are some enlightened, celestial demigods, I believe I know exactly what they’re planning.
Unfortunately, they likely won’t resemble Jake Sully’s long-legged lover.
They’ll be little green, genderless beings, clad in Carhartt vests and Chacos, twirling one hitters and sporting raccoon-eyed goggle tans.
And they’ll be telling us to ski.
They’ll implore us to paddle spicy whitewater, and climb big rocks too.
They’ll say we should maximize our time gripping cold beers beneath bluebird skies, with dirt between our toes and good people in our midst.
They’ll gift every man, woman and child with fat tire bikes, Yeti coolers and comfy, moisture-wicking socks.
They’ll assure us that, yes, the answer is always, more mushrooms.
These Martians, or Venutians—whoever they might be—will kick off a revolution that shifts the Earth’s collective conscience. We will cease existing as homo sapiens, and become full-time Fun Hogs.
Common folk will tear off their ties, tell Phil in accounting to fuck off, and dive headfirst into the world; shirtless, wild and red-eyed.
Civilians will delete excel spreadsheets, smash their keyboards, and march forth from cubicles and home offices, picking up paddles and ski poles, to join the ranks of the most dedicated pleasure-chasers.
Condos in Breckenridge and Tahoe will be bulldozed. Boats with engines will be banned from every wild and scenic river in the country. Starbucks and crepe shops from Colorado to California will be firebombed and reduced to ashes.
In their place, the people will plant some grass and set up free parking, with enough space for a sea of vans, campers, and tents to unfold.
Towering bonfires will roar at the base of every ski resort in America, and tourists will be forced to relinquish those stupid hats with the dangly-poofy things to the flames.
The people will storm the offices of Patagonia and Arc’teryx together, demanding that gear be sold at a reasonable price, and 20% of profits given as a gratuity to lift operators, snowmakers and designated drivers.
Spontaneous evolution will occur. All of our thighs and hamstrings will become corded, sinewy and strong, enabling us to move at any elevation with ease. The human liver will take on the constitution of the world’s most seasoned river guides, and in the event we run out of PBR, we’ll all be able to process rubbing alcohol without worry.
The populace will develop an addiction to adrenaline, and wear permanent, adventure-fueled grins. Mother Earth will swell with laughter, and tremble beneath the weight of our collective joy.
Together, the world will realize that the only way to really go through life, is a bit sunburnt, spent, and out of breath. Maybe slightly drunk, dirty, and giddy, too.
The extraterrestrial message will be clear: the road to nirvana is paved with good times and good people.
Some “intellectuals” seem to think that visitors from another world could pose a great threat to our existence.
Those self-important nerds can speculate as much as they’d like. We won’t need to scramble the jets and Randy Quaid won’t have to kamikaze himself into the mothership.
The aliens will simply insist that we grab each other by the hand, step into the sun, dial up the stoke level, and send it.
So, you might as well start today.
Stop tweeting. Stop posting.
Close the laptop. Put away the phone.
Tell your boss, your parents, and your peers to pipe down with their talk of “responsibilities”.
You’re going skiing. Or paddling. Or climbing.
Doesn’t matter which. Just grab a beer and get outside.