We live where it is still winter. Not mild wisps of the end of season winter, but full on two feet of snowpack and blowing winds winter. We were all recently fooled by a predicted April Fool’s storm. We were supposed to get two feet of heavy, wet snow. We didn't. We got three more inches of light snow. It did not matter. The extra layers would have been for bragging right only. It is still like mid-winter here and absent an Old-Testament style rain we will be avoiding yard work, running baseball practices inside and enjoying skiing the sides of our mountains for a month to come.
Not only is there plenty of snow but people are out and enjoying it. Yes, there is some grousing but, come on, six months of hard winter is not okay. Aside from the grousing though there is skiing and boarding to be had and on this past Sunday our local hill was like a community party spread out over 500 acres. Kids zipped through every nook and cranny. The ample, fat line at the chair lift was like being in line to buy groceries in our small town – can’t stand there without saying hello to a dozen people. And the bluebird day made the ride up the lift an “E-ticket,” to borrow from Walt Disney-land, in its own right. Mountain in high relief; the Notch standing out like an Albert Bierstad painting of Yosemite; the White Mountains to the East hovering like clouds on the horizon; the lift line in front of us a highway for speed, for deep tele-turns, for snowboarders arching their trays like they are in a ballet. The upper sections on the front of the mountain were snow-filled and bone dry. This is April in snow country and we might as well enjoy it.
It is hard to write about skiing. There is a feeling associated with moving downhill, at speed, on skis or I will guess a snowboard, unlike almost any other endeavor. Surfers probably feel the joy of unfettered motion every now and then. Maybe ski-diving. Michael Jordan felt it playing basketball, I’d guess. There are not though too many sports where mortals can fly. Skiing is as close as I’ll ever come to Michael Jordan. That sense of peace is hard to come by in life. Here? It is a five-minute walk from any particular point on the compass.
I have an old pair of skis. They are Atomic GS, racing stock. They are 210 cm long. The bindings crank down until the boot is secured to the ski as if welded. I use to take them out maybe once a year. I would take them down a famous trail here -- the Nosedive -- which starts with three hard, steep turns through a shadowy gap on the side of our mountain. I'd take them out on an early morning late in the winter. I would point the skis into the turns at the top of the trail. They’d set like rails. I leaned them over and was anchored to the ground. As I leaned the skis accelerated. I rolled through my turns, taking the shock of the hill in my quads. Eventually I just straightened out and flew. The wind roared as I slid downhill. And then I stopped. And then would think ‘that was stupid.’ I’m old enough not to break them out any more. Well, maybe one more time.
The snow this year just built and built. It was incremental. And then it rained. And then two feet of snow fell in what seemed like an hour. Where we live it is touristic but also rural. There is not a lot to do some days. This year, though, there was lots of snow. It seemed many days the entire town was on our hill. There is lots to what makes up a community. Here, the mountain is a big part of who we are. This year it seems we used it more, it was kind to us and six months of winter does not feel so bad.
