My good friend Tom came to visit from Missouri last summer. I met him at the Aspen airport early one July morning. He stepped off the plane and walked across the tarmac all the while looking around at the mountains that surround our town.

I met him inside and he shook my hand. “Where'd you guys put the humidity?” he asked. “We don't have any,” I assured him. “We're on the edge of a desert and the dry air stays here year-round. But because of the altitude it almost never gets above 90 degrees around here.”

“Man, you've got it made,” he said, shaking his head in wonder. “In Missouri it's over 100 degrees with 90 percent humidity to accompany it. You sweat in the shower.”

We drove up Brush Creek Road and he marveled at the deep blue sky over Mt. Daly and the green fields that had been graced with abundant rain all summer. Flowers kissed the ditches and spread up the hillsides above the Rodeo. “I thought you said it was a desert,” he said.

“It's a very high desert so the mountains wring the water out of the sky. Like any desert all you have to do is add water and it becomes a paradise.”

“Like California?”

“Exactly,” I said as we approached Woodbridge.

He noticed the Viceroy looming over the road. “What's that?” he asked. I turned up Wood Road and drove past the hotel so he could take a look at it.

“You actually have construction jobs up here?” Tom asked incredulously. “I'd bet they're the last construction jobs in the country.”

“No. If you drive around, there are still a few houses going up,” I said. He looked at me like I was crazy, but said nothing as he checked out all the activity going on in Snowmass.

“There are troubles in paradise,” I said, pointing out the plastic sheets wrapping the Bay City concrete blight. “Those buildings have lost funding and construction has come to a halt. It could be years before anything gets done.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “”That looks kind of tacky, but I'd bet someone finishes sooner than later.”

“We all hope so.”

After getting him settled in to his room we rented him a mountain bike and took a ride on the lift. I chose an easy downhill and we wound down through aspen forests back to town for another run. “You do this all the time?” he asked.

“No, usually I ride the bike uphill,” I replied. “I ride the lift if I have guests.”

“This is the greatest time I've ever had on a bike,” he said. “What a day!”

Little did he know that it wasn't over yet. It was Thursday and the band was just getting started when we arrived at the concert. All the beautiful people were congregated and as we walked the crowd Tom marveled at how many people I knew. We stayed until last song and then listened to more music in the local bars, which were packed as usual.

“You actually live this life every day?” Tom asked, once again with the disbelief in his voice. I was kind of embarrassed, but also very proud. There are a lot of places that have it bad economically speaking, but hardly anyone lives to play as much as residents of this town.

“No. We live completely different lives in the winter,” I said.

“Yeah, all that cold must be tough.”

“That wasn't quite what I meant,” I said mysteriously. I figure if he comes back in February he could learn what a week skiing the slopes of Snowmass is like. But I really shouldn't rub it in. Living in the mountains in a mega-resort like Snowmass should make everyone jealous.

This Thanksgiving we all need to think about what we have in this community. We are very lucky to have chosen a life that people pay tens of thousands a week to experience for just a moment. Be thankful for what you have and share with those less fortunate. Well, share everything you can, but don't rub it in.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Johnny Boyd's book, First Tracks, is available at the Viceroy Hotel gift shop and online at www.ptopress.com. E-mail: snomasokist@msn.com