Good morning and welcome to Summit Up, the world's only daily column with markedly different standards of decency than some of our local ski patrollers.

We thought their job was to save errant skiers from wood poisoning, set up ropes and poles to force us to practice our limbo skills when we duck them and transport our bodies when they find them (after we've ducked those ropes). Apparently, they're fashion police as well.

How were we supposed to know that clear plastic wrap is not acceptable ski attire? Maybe we're in no position to judge here, but we've seen much, much more hideous outfits out on the slopes: the one-piece, neon jumpers; the Starter jackets emblazoned with "Kansas City Chiefs," "Dallas Cowboys" and "Los Angeles Raiders"; jeans; and a hoary host of other fashion faux pas.

While not endorsed by Christian Dior or Ralph Lauren, ours was at least practical. Here's what happened: We went with the sports crew over to Copper to check out the Gravity Games (truth be told, we were under the mistaken impression that they would have some sort of machine that either turned gravity off or made it more powerful or something - we left screaming about false advertising) and hiked up on the mountain to watch some boardercross.

As you might have noticed, it was a little sunny Thursday. We didn't notice, that is, until the people passing overhead on the chairlift started shouting, "Hey, lobster!" We were, shall we say, beginning to cook.

No problem, we figured, let us just take advantage of this. So, in between events, we went down to the village, disrobed of our ski clothes and broke out the Saran Wrap. Then we applied a generous layer of suntan lotion between skin and plastic. You'd like it: It gets all squishy and mushy.

Ski patrollers, on the other hand, don't seem to see the genius behind it. At least that's what we took their laughter to mean as they escorted us down the mountain.

There you have it, folks: Another lesson on mountain etiquette.

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We're out on Third Avenue, waiting for these rail jam kids to do their own version of Tchaikovsky (as in "The Nutcracker Suite") ...