Descending from the creaky chairlift, I admire and fear the headwall of iced rockface with the thick layered cornice of snow draped above it, much like a beret tilted over one eye. The yellow avalanche warning signs state the obvious.
Participating in a sport with power and vibrance, at age 70 minus 129 days, is a gift. Especially when it involves keeping up with a cluster of 30-somethings through steep, treed alpine bowls recently carpeted with two feet of soft snow. I watch with awe and envy as the young legs ahead of me bounce and pivot effortlessly. I utter a quiet prayer that my quads and knees will show up to guide me as I drop over a ridge into the abyss of white, interrupted with majestic tall firs. I know this steep pitch will end in a wide gully and a track to the lift. I have fond memories of the meeting place at the bottom of the ancient T-bar. These propel me forward and down.
When I joined a gym last spring, it was with the intention of strengthening my muscles, keeping my joints supple, and maintaining a level of fitness that would ensure I could participate in the sports I love. I lost count of the number of times while on the mountain I whispered a humble prayer of thanks to the community of coaches and fellow exercise addicts that sweat with me, share dumbbells, and ignore the pillow creases and morning hair.
The joyful nuggets of a ski trip with our children were first unearthed 30 years ago. It was a morning meeting, listening to elder colleagues joke about their teenagers showing up for family ski trips, despite their distaste for adults, especially their parents, that caught my attention. The seed was planted – we should be a skiing family. I witnessed the family hostage taking of the hockey player, figure skater, and child prodigy hopefuls. I longed for togetherness rather than splintering. Despite the expense and grind of our short eastern Canada ski season, we transitioned from skeptics in December to “all in” by March.
Our winter weekends were spent outdoors, far from the city malls, movie theatres and television screens. Our March breaks were chaotic, finger-freezing, heart-warming mountain adventures. The payoff continues. Here on a holiday with our son and daughter-in-law, in the Lizard Range of the Southern Rockies, and at our home ski club, fighting for table space with grandchildren on our hips.
I feel particularly fortunate that my hips and knees still have intact cartilage and ligaments. Many of my era have chosen or been forced to give up downhill pursuits. When it’s a choice, I imagine they are battling fear and risk of injury. When it’s an imperative, I sense the nostalgia. A transition away from winter, to softer and body-friendly activities, seems almost inevitable. Opportunities to borrow time on a ski hill are precious.
I love the mountains. I’m drawn to their looming energy. Sliding down the steep ramp after a long and inhospitable chairlift ride, I am humbled and respectful of the terrain that surrounds me. Our guide this week is our son. Each ride up is an opportunity to debrief on the last run and discuss options for the next one. He is calm and considerate – often having us congregate at the top for a “vibe” check. This includes inquiries regarding bio break needs, toe and finger temperature checks, leg strength and energy levels, and always, timing for lunch. He generally offers 2 -3 trail options, with suggestions on fresh and best snow, and pitch and exit strategies. Dicey traverses require regroup and strategy suggestions to manage speed and bumps. We are always reminded to have a buddy in sight. I feel well looked after and confident.
As I write about this week in the mountains, I feel a luxurious surge of gratitude and reverence. The bliss reminds me that none of the details of the past few days are to be taken for granted. Despite caring for my body and cultivating courage, the biological clock ticks. Perhaps that is what defines the experiences as clearer and sweeter than ever. The snow was lighter and softer than I remembered. The jagged white-tipped mountains are more beautiful. The bluebird day, especially blue. The cold sandwiches and lukewarm coffee-hot chocolate combo at lunch was tastier than usual.
We have created cherished memories to add to the slideshow stored in my head and heart. This being the time of life to notice and receive, I am thankful beyond words.