Talking Story with Arlo: mammoth. ski.snoboard

Talking Story with Arlo

Groovatrons on the Loose:

A Beatnik Blizzard Bash in Mammoth

Hey, cool cats and cosmic kittens, it’s your ol’ pal Arlo Agogo, the 58-year-old beatnik bard of the Mojave, back with another tale to tickle your soul and tune your vibes to the frequency of funk.

This one’s got it all—snow, surf, Swedish bikini skiers, and a posse of neutrino-sized Groovatrons straight outta Funkadelia, those tiny soul-nudgers who zip through the universe spreading positivity like confetti at a peace rally.

So, grab your shades, pour some java, and let’s ride this wave of groove together.

Picture this: My longtime compadre "Big Wave Dave", a big-wave surfer with a heart as wild as the Pacific, shoots me a message from the ether.

“Arlo, I’m swinging by Montebello, Cali, to dig the parental scene. Let’s hit Mammoth for some spring shredding!” Now, Montebello’s my old stomping ground, just a half-mile hop from Daves’s childhood pad, so this feels like fate doing a jazzy two-step.

Daves’s fearless—rides 50-footers like they’re kiddie pools—and I’m stoked to reunite. I tell him, “Man, I’ll cruise down to Mom and Pop’s pad in Montebello, then we’ll blast up to Mammoth for some righteous turns.”

The plan’s set, and the universe is humming.

Fast-forward a few weeks: I’m at LAX, scooping Dave up in my trusty Ford F-150, a beast loaded with ski gear, golf clubs, and a trunk lid that’s seen more miles than Kerouac’s typewriter. I drop him at his folks’ place, swing by my own parental digs for some quality hang time, and then it’s go-time.

The Groovatrons—those funky, neutrino-sized agents of joy I’ve been rapping about in past posts—catch wind of this caper via text (yeah, they’re hip to the digital age). “Arlo, we’re in!” they buzz, and suddenly, the trip’s groovier than a Hendrix solo.

These lil’ dudes, smaller than electrons, smaller than a neutron, infiltrate souls with a mission: nudge humanity toward positivity and pure, unadulterated groovyness. And now they’re along for the ride.

But first we hit Frumento's Italian Market Deli for some Sandwiches then Balcom's Market for a bag of snacks and a six pac of RC Cola.

Dave and I peel out, cruising north through the Owens Valley, a stretch so gorgeous it’d make a poet weep—White Mountains to the east, Sierra Nevadas to the west, and a ribbon of highway slicing through like a beatnik’s dream.

My truck ain’t quantum-entangled like my dune buggy (that’s another yarn), so we’re rolling at a chill 70 mph, not the speed of time. The Groovatrons text me a pic: millions of ‘em lounging on my dashboard in tiny beach chairs, sipping microscopic mai tais under umbrellas, digging the view.

“We love the road trip vibes, daddy-o!” they chime. Dave and I get deep, talking life, waves, and cosmic threads. I spill the beans about the Groovatrons, how they’ve been jazzing up my existence and everyone around me. “Don’t be shocked if you start feeling giddy, man,” I warn him.

He laughs, that big surfer cackle, and says, “Arlo, I know ‘em! In Hawaii, we call ‘em the Aloha Spirit. They trail me everywhere, spreading peace and stoke.” I text the Groovatrons, “You got Hawaiian kin?” Back comes a snap: half of ‘em rocking straw hats, Hawaiian shirts, and mini surfboards. Far out!

We roll into Bishop, a gem of a town, and hit the local golf course—nothing fancy, just a small-town beauty framed by majestic peaks, rivers, and plains at 3,000 feet. The thin air sends our drives soaring like eagles, and after a few hours, we’re grinning ear to ear.

Back in the truck, clubs tossed in the bed, we point the nose toward Mammoth. “Three days of shredding ahead, bro!” Dave whoops. We check into my fave spot, the Shilo Inn, room 420 (natch), and crash for an early start.

Friday and Saturday, Mammoth’s a dream—blue skies, warm temps, primo spring snow. But Saturday night, a freak storm drops a fluffy few feet of powder, turning the mountain into a playground of epic proportions.

Sunday, we scarf the continental breakfast and hit the lifts. Dave, being Dave, beelines for the cornice—a steep, gnarly drop that’s above my pay grade. “Dig deep, Arlo,” he urges. “Flap those arms, land that powder, and hop it down!” I gulp, but his vibe’s contagious.

He glides atop the snow like it’s a wave; I’m hip-hopping through waist-deep fluff, praying I don’t eat it.

Halfway down, tunnel vision kicks in—don’t fall, don’t fall—when I spot skis poking outta the snow. “Dave!” I holler, skidding to a stop. We hustle over and find two skiers buried by a mini-avalanche. Boards off, we dig like mad, carving a snow cave to shield ‘em from the wind.

I jam my skis in an X—trouble’s universal sign—and we unearth two young women, semi-conscious, blue-lipped, and ice-cold. Trouble’s brewing, but Dave and I have a secret weapon: heated vests, powered by battery packs in our backpacks.

Modern tech, baby! We unzip our parkas, wrap ‘em in bear hugs, and pour our warmth into ‘em. Above, the gondola crowd spots us, screaming, “Help’s coming!”

Snowmobiles roar up, Ski Patrol takes over, bundling the girls into sleds and zipping ‘em to the lodge. Patrol escorts us down, and we stick to groomed runs after that—no more deep-snow heroics.

That night, we hit the "Charthouse" for steak and lobster, then slide to the bar for cocktails. Two bartenders—Ski Patrol vets from earlier—clock us.

“You’re the heroes!” they say, pointing across the room. There, unrecognizable sans goggles, are the girls we saved—part of the Swedish Downhill Bikini Ski Team, in town for a stunt.

They rush over, hugging us, thanking us for maybe saving their lives. Word spreads, and suddenly, 20 bikini skiers are toasting us—free drinks, epic hugs, instant hero status.

The night’s a blur of joy, and as it winds down, they head home, and so do we.

Cruising back through Owens Valley, Dave and I reflect. It wasn’t our bravery that saved the day—it was the Groovatrons. Those funky lil’ neutrinos, hailing from Funkadelia and Hawaii, orbited us like atoms gone wild, generating heat to keep our snowy squad alive.

They’re the real MVPs, slipping through souls, redirecting us to joy. This beatnik life? It’s all about positivity as a law, and with the Groovatrons in tow, every tale’s a comedy, every moment a groove.

So, keep your eyes peeled, cats—these tiny funksters are everywhere, nudging us toward the light.

Groove is in the Heart. - Arlo