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Because it's what we do

(Editor's Note: This story first appeared in the February 2007 issue of Mammoth Monthly magazine. Subscribe here.)

Skiing down a groomer in a nasty windstorm, I was surprised when something blowing across the hill wrapped itself around my head in an instant and covered my goggles.

I skidded to a stop and grabbed for the object.

Women's panties?

That must have been some gust! I thought. I looked upwind for a naked and hypothermic woman skiing toward me, but the only thing I saw was a vaguely distinguishable tree, with a myriad of colorful contents, bending over in the wind.

Shoulda known, I thought, and stuffed the panties in my pocket for proper disposal.

Everyone's seen the panty trees. Situated close to chairlifts for ease of decoration, they have gained popularity on ski hills across the country.

These makeshift depositories of panties, bras and Mardi Gras beads serve as a light-hearted reminder that people are getting lucky, stealing underwear, and then flinging them into trees.

How refreshing.

How did this all start? Maybe one day some lucky ski bum was riding a chairlift and felt something wadded under his thermals, pulled out a pair of panties and threw them over his shoulder, where they floated to the nearest tree and started a revolution.

Maybe some guy hooked up with a female lift operator, stole her panties and flung them onto a tree next to the seventh pole of her lift.

Romantic? I guess that depends on where your work visa is from.

I for one have difficulty imagining the point at which a guy thinks, "I'm gonna get these panties and fling 'em in a tree." Or, for that matter a partner who would reply, "Sweet. Take 'em."

One must consider the possibility that all those G-strings, little lacy things and granny panties are not the fruits of a legendary hookup, but instead a not-so-clever attempt at being comical, because everyone knows how singularly hilarious it is to litter underwear in a one hundred-year-old tree.

Case in point: I once saw a guy buying a pair of oversized granny panties at K-Mart in Bishop, showing them off to his buddy in the checkout line, laughing. No person, no matter how heartless, would ever laugh at his or her grandmother like that. Those things were going in a tree.

At one time unique, the sight of branches strained under the weight of snow-filled underwear now appears a bit passé.

Ask any local and they'll tell you the precise location of each tree, and even the aspiring panty trees with only one pair of panties in it -- so far. What next? More panties in more trees?

How about a goggle tree? After a sick powder run, just take your goggles, throw them into a tree and go home. Perhaps a cell phone tree, ringing and beeping with calls from someone's soon-to-be-ex-boss.

Surely, somewhere on Mammoth Mountain there is a family of chipmunks that is thanking each panty-flinging contributor from the luxurious comfort of their pimped-out silky panty den.

As for people who find panties on the hill and want to dispose of them, I will offer one suggestion: do not forget you've picked them up.

Regardless of how much people despise panty trees, they will always prefer to see panties there, rather than wadded up in their spouse's pocket.