And we found ourselves again. Found ourselves in the small car hurtling into the mountains. The perfect white flakes caked our face, and the frost but slivers of skin, and warm conversation kept the ice-piercing lift rides bearable.
I was nervous. I always am for that “can I even get off a lift?” and “how many times will I eat shit today?” first day of the season questions.
But somehow, every year the feet slip into the boots and click into the skis like old friends. And you find yourself again, slicing down the white, dancing with the mountains to the music of winter.
The song starts to awaken in your soul: the song of this wild purity.
And then the moment comes when you remember, this is how you live. Not a life-style or an activity, but the way your body thrums and your heart beats and you feel it again – happiness.
For me, looking out into those snow blanketed mountains in the valley below, that is when I remembered this is how I find myself: amid stolen moments at the top of runs, in tangled messes after wipeouts, in wild whoops chasing snow caught sun trails, in rosy cheeks stamped by sun and wind, in braids frozen with ice, in legs sore with happy days, and the ecstasy of feeling so small on the face of those massive peaks.
Suddenly, it seemed so utterly stupid that I thought the lines of normal life could snap me up into them and hold me away from this purity – of snow, of happiness, of life.
So cheers I thought, this season is going to be a good one. A good one to find myself again and taste a little powder and blue sunshine while I am at it.
Coming home the sky turned to rosé, and I drank it up. The snow poured from the night in the city. I spun around in the middle of the sidewalk, letting the powder cover my face. I danced thinking about how soon I could return to the mountains.