It’s here again: winter. Well, we’ll have to see. This could be a teaser, what with global warming. The snow line is about ¾ of the way down the mountain, and the valley itself remains warm. The ground is soft, although there was a fairly thick skin of ice on the rain barrel by the front door.
“What are you doing, honey?” my wife Shannon said to me this morning.
“Ah…..ah….Oh, well, I’m ummm……..trying on my ski pants.”
“You’re just a big kid,” she said with her usual kind laugh, taking delight in my enthusiasm for the things I love to do. I’ve skied since I was three (3), hiked, climbed, and trekked in mountains all over the world. There is just something magical about mountains and snow and clouds and sometimes being on the edge. It’s a sauce piquant to life.
The pants were tight. Did you know that nylon shrinks? Honest, it does, I know that for a fact. That’s why the pants don’t fit. I didn’t tell Shannon; I lied, saying, “Boy, they feel great. I’m ready.” Actually I’m not ready. How many turns have I done on snow? It’s a big number. A million? 2 Million? I don’t know, but just one good turn, ski arcing, hands out in front, body leading and then following the turn, face feeling the sun and the cold and the wind is all I want. I still love it, but I do miss the old, long ( 215cm) wooden skis ( Rossignol Combi/Kastle/Kneissel Kannonon) with the leather boots and the 7’ rawhide long-thongs that bound the boot to the ski in bear traps. I loved the smell of melted wax. Ah, well , on peut dire que mieux que hier mais moins de demain.
I’m looking out the window of my writing office. The snowline is retreating up the mountain. The mountain always wins. Maybe my ski pants will fit when the snow really comes. J’espère.