http://www.emilymcallister.com/skis.html

Lisa Montierth

She came to Colorado with a mountain in her mind. The scene was blurry, gray, impossible to see if she tried to concentrate on it. For months, the mountain lived as a specter in her periphery. Black birds circled the peak.

It was some time before the mountain came into focus. First, it was in the eyes of pink-cheeked men. Sometimes she would talk with them at length, about books, music, the weather, the world. She could smell the wind in their hair. Conversation would lull, quiet. The mountain flickered across their faces, painting ridges in the curves of their jaws.

The mountain began to speak to her in the words of strangers. She overheard strange stories about dangerous people – people who knew the mountain well. She learned there was a way to ride the mountain, a way to feel its ebbs and flows, to stand at a peak and navigate divine descent.

Then, it showed itself to her. It stood; proud, curvy. It was real. She was scared. Months of living in its shadow had made her heart weak. The fog circling the icy rock was more than vapor – it was expectation, disappointment, failure, loneliness. She turned away.

And she chained herself to a florescent prison, a sickening hum of mindless production, a cardboard box of roaches. She dragged her feet. She dreamt of stagnant streams, festering with algae and buzzing with lower life. It was more than the mountain she was losing. The fire in her burned down to coals.

The winds changed, and it was spring. By now, she didn’t trust the bones of her own hands. But as the web of stars spun above her, and she stood as a husk in her small life, she saw herself reflected in the blooming tree limbs. She remembered herself. And so she was brave.

Her heart grew stronger. The sun came, and river-water washed her days. She slept on beds of Columbine. She loved a bicycle. She loved a man. In the early evenings she would sit in her backyard, the summer blazing in Colorado primaries, and one day, the mountain came back. It was green.

The leaves changed, the wind cooled. It snowed. It snowed again. The mountain whispered to her.

She went to it. And she brought a pair of skis.

The hill was icy, not soft and light like she’d imagined. After a particularly maddening fall, she held still and laid her face against the snow to feel the sting of the mountain. Her clothing was heavy and moist from the inside.

Frustration burned a tight bump into her throat. She wanted to scream and cry and curse the snow. Tears burned the corners of her eyes. She was suddenly, relentlessly alive. This mountain covered in snow had set her on fire.

She tried again. She fought self-sabotage. And she saw that the blades of her skis were wings, and she could fall or she could fly. She flew.

The day waned and her legs fought fatigue. Turns became smooth, wide. The terror in her belly eased into exhilaration. By the time the sun disappeared behind the peaks and shadow overtook diamond white, she was in love.

As she left the mountain, she caught her reflection in the side of a glass building and she stared at it. Her whole body smiled. She couldn’t remember a time she’d felt more beautiful.

And then the mountain was always there, always hers. The surreal freedom of fresh powder sang in her ears. She knew now that she didn’t have to fear falling. She could always stand again, and fly.

you wanna know: why do i ski?

that’s a cool question to ponder. and, to be honest, i don’t know if i’ve got a really solid answer for you. but i do have a sincere one. i’m gonna go with something philosophical here, something ala rene decartes (‘a drunken fart,’ natch): you know the one i’m talking about (wait for it…).

i ski therefore i am.

flashback: i learned to ski during the 1984-1985 season, when i was about 17 years old, at arizona snowbowl in flagstaff, arizona, during a thick, cold, merciless storm. that was about 25 years ago.

tempus fugit: time flies, don’t it, rene?

can i get an amen?

anyway, here’s the lowdown: i live, max, like 25 minutes, boots, gloves and all, from the bottom of the lift at snowbowl, where i’ve been a season pass-holder for the last dozen or so years; i get to ski whenever it snows (my work gives me snowdays), and every saturday and sunday morning, well into the springtime, long after the phoenicians have given up wintery pursuits for sundry other sunny adventures.

and i’ve got the following bulletized list to prove my cred:

* i’ve had the same job for the past 17 years and never been promoted (or fired).
* i’ve lived in the same town, in the same house, in the bad part of town, for almost 20 years.
* the total value of my IRA is just over $250.00 (that is not a typo).
* I am 43 years old (a prime number).
* i’ve owned 3 cars and just one 1000 square-foot house in my entire life.
* and, after our bills are paid, there is never (seriously: never) more than a few hundred dollars in the checking account.

i live poor like this in flagstaff for one reason: to ski.

sounds kinda whiny, doesn’t it? but, don’t get me wrong: my life is very good. first-and-foremost because i have this great, healthy, joyful family that stokes my heart-fires everyday…

but also because, i own this mountain. well, not literally (can you imagine?), but in a very real sense, it’s mine. actually, it’s more like i’m married to it, than i’m the owner of it. surely, you could say i know her inside and out, or at least in-bounds and out.

but, i can prove my devotion and faithfulness to her in no uncertain terms (this will blow you away, but it’s the honest truth): in 25 years skiing, from my early days as a wobbly SPORE alpiner, to today, as a smelly, rope-ducking, meadow-skipping freeheeler, i’ve really only ever skied here, just here…only on my local hill… riding up fixed-grip 15-minute chairs at arizona snowbowl like a bazillion and a half times… that’s days, weeks, maybe months of my life! they should give me a medal, or at least put my picture in their newsletter, name a chair after me… but they haven’t.

nevertheless, despite the oversight, i am content. i love this mountain, her snowy flanks, her dangerous backcountry, her best kept secrets, and especially all the ways she skis. perhaps, had i been a richer man, i might have been tempted love other mountains just as passionately, but time and fate have conspired to restrain my passions. perhaps, had i been a bolder man, i’d have sought out other locales in order to broaden my experiences. again, fate has taken me down a different path. perhaps another mountains would indeed ski just as well, perhaps even better. but, i am a simple man, a skier defined by the mountain of his youth. so i just don’t know.

i will ski at telluride, should you decide to win me this contest. i’m pretty sure i can talk my mountain into it. heck, she might even be cool with it. who knows what i might learn!

i’ll tell her it’ll make me a better man. you know: that i’ll be thinking of her the whole time…

oh, and by the way, this is what my mountain looks like to me (enjoy!);

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QyLQWblj1Wk
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GvJlSvC6TWs
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ejNaLi4vGvA