I was too old when I learned to ski: at least 15. Compared to the crop of "ski-wees" aged 3-6 who would whiz by with no regard for their elders, I felt completely impotent. To make matters worse I graduated at the bottom of my first ski class. This thoroughly new and distressing experience-- having the instructor single me out for my special needs rather than my special abilities-- nearly resulted in a stillborn skiing career. Nevertheless, I redoubled my commitment to that which was at first challenging, and I determined to succeed.
Today I cannot imagine a world in which I did not have an annual ski trip to look forward to. Unfortunately life has kept me an uncomfortable distance from ski country. This past weekend was one of those rare and precious experiences that make the balance of the year tolerable. Having braved blizzard conditions to get to Glendive, I caught Big Sky Airlines to Bozeman in time to hit the slopes Saturday morning. As I buckled up my ski boots and secured myself in the bindings, 344 days of trouble and stress melted away like snowflakes under the blazing sun.
As I cruised down the mountain side sucking in fresh Montana air and enjoying the serenity of silence as the wind gently whistled through the pines. As I forgot the drudgery of life. As I LIVed. I couldn't help cast my glance across the sun drenched Gallatin range and give thanks for this incredible world. My ski trips are an essential part of the maintenance of my sanity. On the side of a mountain, carving tracks in the snow, I feel closer to God and to myself than in any other pursuit. For me this diversion is poetry in motion, and the reason to persevere for another 344 days.
1 comment:
You put into words what I feel when I ski, and having just learned, I will now be a "powder junkie" for the rest of my life. It is poetry in motion--even when I get going too fast, fall and slide for mile. :) You should try CO slopes sometime. Peace.
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