The allure of the mountain

Growing up with ski-teaching parents, we tumbled around the slopes of the Ski Bowl pretty much all winter long.  I loved speeding down the hill. I hated the cold, wet snow on my face and under my collar. I still hear about and vaguely recall, how on less than pleasant days, I would bury my face deep in my jacket all the way up the chair lift and shun any attempt at conversation with something akin to a grunt.

Upon my sister-encouraged return to skiing several years ago, I realized that I could choose to ski in whatever weather I wished. And I've become a much more charming ski partner because of it.  But fair weather skiing sometimes means you get imperfect snow.  At 9am this morning the snow was already what I would call two o'clock snow, mushy and likened to mashed potatoes by the funny ski patrol guy who carries suntan lotion and candy in his pocket.

Luckily the digging out of the Palmer lift had been recently completed and the snow was a little firmer up top.  To me, the best thing about Palmer is the arrival. First you ski out and face a stunning panoramic view with Mt. Jefferson standing tall in the center. Then before you drop off into the steepness, you turn to look up and feel like you're so close to the top you can nearly touch it.

After a couple of hours, with worn out legs, I rode up one final time, skied out as far as possible, took off my skis and jammed them into the snow to form a solitary lounge chair. This is one of my favorite things to do.

To be on the open face of the mountain, just over the rise that hides the lifts and people from view is to experience a remarkable feeling of freedom. Nothing stands between you and the sky.  The spare landscape is stunningly tempting, a bright white ocean breaking in a clean line against the piercing blue.  The stillness accents the spectacular drama above as ice breaks away and crashes down from the jagged rock face. And the wings of the crows sound wonderfully powerful as they beat against the thin air.

Today, I watch the climbers disappear one by one into a single cloud that shrouds the top of the mountain and refuses to let go, even in the warm spring sun.  I watch the cloud slowly dance around the summit and see how its shadow alters the look of the ice from moment to moment. I talk with a disappointed climber who waited near the top for almost an hour before turning back without achieving his goal. But he's still happy enough to be out on the mountain on a beautiful day.

And then I look down to my side and am surprised to find a tiny lady bug gingerly walking across the snow, carefully placing her feet one by one on the minute crystals that make up the vastness of the snow field.  I reach out and let her sit on my hand for a few moments and ask her what she's doing so high up on the mountain.  In answer, she silently stretches her legs, opens her wings and tosses herself up into the blue sky and over the ridge. I will never know.

It's always a good day on the mountain.