Ode to SkiingAs the rain begins to fall, that means the end of day trips to the mountain. I remember best one foggy morning with an eerie silence. Visibility was 10 feet and there was 2 feet of fresh pixie dust powder on the top of the mountain. As I plunged over the ledge into Bishop's Bowl I could feel the snow as high as my upper leg as I leaned into the the mountain to leverage my weight with the steep slope. Turn after turn, I made my way down the mountain working up a sweat as if I was in Florida walking along the beach on a humid day. As my ski catches a spot of heavy snow, I let my body fall into the cloud of snow. A soft landing with a spray of snow in my face like a water bottle fan on a hot summers' day. Not another soul up on the mountain on a Wednesday morning - I sit in silence. I can see where the snow is broken, the light plays a trick on my eyes. The snow is bright blue. Ahhh, my cell phone rings - upsetting the perfect moment. Scott calls to see if I am coming to class - probably not today. I stand back up, then let myself fall down a few more times to enjoy the soft slide down. Next is the canal with walls of snow on both sides. I make my way down, still in eerie silence. I haven't seen another person as I approach the creeking sound of Sundance's old lift, not yet visible. Only a bearded man stands at the post. "Its perfect up there today, huh?"
"Yeah, perfect."
