Since moving to the new studio, my old kiln fired once without a problem, but during the second firing, it threw the breaker multiple times. Having a fair bit of life experience and a healthy respect for certain tasks, like ones involving electricity, I called an electrician, who scheduled me for the next day. 

Cian (pronounced Kee-an) called, said he was nearby and asked if it was a convenient time for me.  

“Yes!” I said. “Now is a great time.” 

He arrived minutes later, listened as I briefly explained the problem, and got to work. No more than five minutes later, he called to me from the studio downstairs and let me know he was finished. 

He explained the problem was the wires had not been properly connected to the 50-amp breaker. I must’ve made a face at this point, obviously worried about all the other breakers in the box. 

“I looked at all the other breakers and made sure they’re OK,” Cian said, reading my mind. 

I thanked him, and like a postmodern superhero, he got in his van and rode away. 

How simple was that? I floated up the stairs in a bit of a daze over how smoothly the diagnosis and repair had gone, and how professional Cian was. 

When I snapped out of my reverie, I called Elliot Electric. 

“This is Julie Engler and Cian was just here to fix a breaker for me,” I began, and continued quickly to avoid undue concern. “I just wanted you to know he was excellent.” 

I went on for a bit, expressing my genuine gratitude for the young man’s old school professionalism.  

An hour later, I went to Sportsman & Ski Haus, looking for a pro to mount bindings to my new skis. Yes, this takes a personal meeting due to ski-related trauma in my past. 

Years ago, when long, skinny boards were in vogue, I was living in Missoula and my dad sent me a pair of 203 cm Volkl skis. I loved them even though they were primarily pink. 

I brought them to a local shop where the tech drilled the holes in the wrong places, a mistake which warranted him finding and ordering a new pair of skis for me. They were the same skis, but to me, they were lacking a certain mojo, because they were not the ones my dad had sent. 

“You just missed him,” the young man at the technician’s desk said when I asked for Jeremy, the shop manager. 

He seemed sincerely disappointed for me and explained that Jeremy had just left to go to the warehouse. He asked if he could help. 

I explained what I needed, and he told me he was a trained tech and had mounted hundreds of bindings. Then, although I tried to restrain myself from doing so, I related my old ski binding story to him.  

He kindly listened and said he understood.  

“I know that sounds crazy, but...” I apologized. 

“No, no. I get it,” he politely interrupted. “You need to trust the person works on your skis.” 

He checked the work schedule and told me I could find Jeremy in the shop the next day at noon.  

"What’s your name?” I asked. 

“Wyatt,” he said, and asked my name as he stood to shake my hand.  

Another stellar encounter.   

Also, opening day on The Big is just 70 days away. Are your quads and boards ready?  

I’m thinking I’ll bring my skis to Wyatt.