As the leaves turn from green to gold and the Canadian air
roams south to its winter dwelling, my thoughts turn to skiing like they do
to the opposite sex each spring. However, this snowy renaissance is far less
fragile than human relationships and far more intoxicating.
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When I dream of another year exploring glades and bowls, I often associate
these times with those I ski with, be they girlfriend or best friend. However,
I neglect that some of my most satisfying experiences have been alone. There’s
something romantic about it; the lone, solitary skier, shunning the crowds and
leaving his own tracks down powdery paths. So, as another winter spreads endless
opportunities, its good to look back upon ski trips and realize that some of
the most profound, yes, profound, days of skiing begin and end in solitude.
It was a bright March morning, the first day of my last spring break. As a
senior in college, I was contemplating my future. Graduate school was an option,
but the rest was left in the gray haze that lives on mountain peaks and swallows
chair lift riders four by four. It’s the stuff that lets you see little before
you and leaves you wondering if you’ll ever reach the top.
My parents were irritated with me, universities
were declining me like a bad credit card and, most of all, my life was changing
despite all efforts. Within a few short months the world as I’d known it would
be no more. The friendships I’d made would be broken down by distance and diverging
careers. My address would change irrevocably and I was scared the rest of my
life would soon follow.
I needed a great escape. Like Steve McQueen
tunneling away from a P.O.W. camp and dodging Germans at every turn, I bolted
for my safe haven, my Switzerland: Vermont’s snowcapped peaks. However, the
enemy I was outrunning was myself.
Driving with a backpack full of BBQ chicken and some over ripe bananas at my
side, I pointed my parent’s Jeep north. Letting instinct take over, I stopped
when I hit the Stratton Mountain parking lot. As I drove, I had two thoughts
in my head. The first was not to think about my life in Boston and the second
was to concentrate on the present. I thought about skiing. I thought about
it like I do when I buy the first ski magazine of the season and soak up every
article and memorize each ad.
In Olympic speed I changed, snapped on my Atomics
and headed towards the lifts. I opted for the high-speed 6-man lift instead
of the gondola. I needed the iron, winter air on my face. I needed to live.
Heading over towards the Sun Bowl, I descended Upper Kidderbrook, a high-octane,
roller coaster of a trail that clings to the southern side of Stratton peak.
Kidderbrook was always my favorite. There’s never a ski-schooler in sight and
the trail, like a good coach, pushes you to ski fast. With no other trails
visible on the peak, you embrace the white solitude and the fresh pine. You
can also ski “the ’brook” with a backpack and not feel like a fool for doing
so in Southern Vermont, if only because you’re distanced from the gondola’s
maddening crowd and every yahoo who drove their “beamer” to the mountain.
Carving down the wood bordered run, it began:
my race. I competed not against the vision of Alberto Tomba in my head, not
against the Tag Heuer chronograph, but against time itself, the very essence
of change.
Every turn became not an escape from life,
but a redefinition of its very meaning. Embracing the steep pitch, I remained
on the fronts of my skis and cranked out my half of a figure eight down the
fall line, a light layer of freshly fallen powder retreating from every carving.
Few skiers saw my barrel runs, fewer seemed to care, and no one knew what each
trip down meant to me. It didn’t matter. As I traversed North American, Vermont
lay at my feet and reddish-black clouds cut straight across the sky. The sun
rambled through the villages below, but Newfane and Jamaica held no interest
for me today. Staying on the steeper side of the trail, I slipped from one drop
to another. I was ten years old.
Chairlift and gondola rides blurred together
between a stream of endless runs. My thoughts turned from “what I am gonna to
do with my life now” to “look what I’m doing in the here and now.” I was partaking
in one of God’s greatest gifts, the freedom of flying childlike down a mountain
with sticks strapped to my feet. It seized me.
As I disembarked from the chair and skated towards Upper Standard, I knew everything
would be fine. Yeah, it sounds trite and I didn’t even understand why I felt
so confident at the time, but damn if it wasn’t true. It hit me like that woman
who plowed me over at Lake Placid when I was a kid. I recognized I’d ski my
whole life and no matter what happened down below in the valleys, the mountains
would do what they did for me that day: provide not merely safety, but rejuvenation.
Upper Standard’s blanket was becoming scrapped
off by the time I reached her and that blue ice which looks pretty anywhere
but on a ski trail covered central portions of the piste, followed by dumps
of snow. However, the sides remained untouched and provided some great lines.
My slalom turns cut close to the trees. The echo of snow breaking against small
pines after my every turn drowned out the sound of chattering skis to my left.
Though others were on the trail with me, I felt truly alone, alone and happy.
Gondola riders hovered above Standard, providing
a moving audience for my every turn. The bright afternoon sun peaked through
the clouds and Vermont pines glistened with caked snow and together they cast
long shadows up Stratton’s front slope.
New England poet Robert Frost wrote, “nothing
gold can stay.” Frost never skied. Sure he admired nature, but capturing it
in a blur of whites and greens and golds creates an enduring photograph in one’s
mind.
Two weeks later the graduate school of my choice
accepted me. And even thought my studies would take me to Chicago, where a hill
is considered anything with a one-foot vertical, I knew I’d return to the mountains:
the place that made my bright future possible.