…The alarm goes off pre-dawn. A pot of coffee is brewed. Sandwiches, made the day before, are put in a small bag, or cooler, or a pocket. A thermos is filled. Gear is inventoried one last time.
A father and son set out in the dark, hiking through the snow and slush and fallen leaves. They make their way to the trees where they hung the deer stands they’d repaired last fall.
At least that’s how I picture it.
…the son comes home from college a few days before. His parents are having a few friends over. He greets the house guests with hugs and smiles, answering the inevitable “how’s school?” Though polite, and glad to see everyone, it’s obvious he’s got better things to do. He’s thinking through a ritual. The cleaning and packing of his gear. The gear that he’ll need in that cold, silent tree stand…
At least that’s how I picture it.
Picturing it is all I can do. Because I’m not invited. And if I were, I’d be an interloper. The point is not the hunt, it’s not the deer. Sometimes I wonder if even the deer would be interlopers. I’m almost sure they would be. It’s a place and time that belongs to a father and a son, and in that place the rest of us don’t even speak the language.
We should all have that. A place that belongs to us. Not in a material way, but something more profound. A place we go, a place we share, an experience important and deep but that outsiders can’t quite grasp. Someplace you share with someone that means the same to you as to them.
She, The Boys and I love to ski (and snowboard). There’ve only been a few years we’ve not done a ski trip, and those years we talk about regretting not going on a ski trip. She and The Boys are very good skiers. Watching The Boys ski convinces me that they’d both be good dancers. They have rhythm and style, they make it look easy. She skis with ease and grace.
I don’t ski well. Though I “skied” for many years, I never really got the hang of turning, falling, or getting up. I’m a menace. I’ve done injurious harm to myself on multiple occasions. I’d go in a straight line, traversing the hill, unable to change speed or direction, then crash. I’d point my skis in a new direction and repeat the process. A menace.
So years ago I decided to try snowboarding. I signed up for a day-long lesson. I was anxious on my way to the hill. I assumed I’d be this weird old guy taking a class from a 19-year old surrounded by a bunch of my 12-year old classmates.
I was happy to be wrong. My instructor was about 67, and I was not the oldest student. We started by learning the parts of the board and it’s bindings…
Anyway, I discovered that I was a much better snowboarder. It was easier on my shredded and unreliable knees, and I found that having both feet strapped to the same device made me much more confident. I also discovered that it felt much more natural not facing directly downhill. So I became a snowboarder. Not a great one, but one that could keep up and not embarrass my family.
Oh, except for that time I wiped out the line at the chairlift. Or that other time, when I crashed getting off the chairlift.
So a couple weeks ago I was cruising along, at a respectable clip, having finally gotten my snowboarding legs under me. I was carving some decent turns and had compelled my stiff, sore, inflexible and out-of-shape body into something resembling a decent riding stance. I felt the wind on my cheeks, and was remembering exactly why I loved to ride.
WHAM!
I was flying, tumbling downhill. My snowboard, chattering on the ice, slowed me down eventually as I slid downhill on my stomach, head pointed down, gasping for breath.
“Dude!” I heard behind me. “I’m so sorry!”
I looked up, and just uphill from me was a guy with a snowboard strapped to his feet, on his hands and knees looking at me.
“Dude,” he said again. “Are you ok?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I responded, poking at my ribs and looking for my goggles.
“No really man. Are you ok?” he asked. “Do you need help?”
“No, really, I’m fine,” I replied.
“Dude, I’m such an asshole.”
“No no. I’m good.” I found myself feeling bad for the guy that just gave me a teeth-rattling wake up call. He really did feel terrible, and could tell that I was hurting a bit. This must be what a spent air bag feels like after a car accident, I thought.
“I was practicing my 360s and didn’t even see you,” he explained. “But I should’ve been looking.”
“I’m ok man, really,” I said, working my way to a standing position. “I was practicing my Yard Sales…” …Bummer, he didn’t hear my super funny joke. See, a Yard Sale is when you crash and leave bits of your gear behind you on the mountain. Funny, right? Practicing my Yard Sales?
Screw you, that’s funny.
And that’s how my first day in Snowmass ended. A Yard Sale caused by a very nice, very concerned asshole. And it was worth every sore muscle.
The snow this year sucked. We had rocks, and dirt and ice. At 10,000 feet in the Rockies in January we were on man-made snow. But we didn’t care. It was still perfect. So here’s how I want you to picture it: the four of us on a mountain, She standing on her skis, me sitting on the ground next to her with an orange-bottomed board strapped to my feet. We’re watching The Boys cruising through the trees and popping off little jumps. We’d just come a short way from the lift, flying down the mountain. She was in a hurry to get to a good vantage point so she could get a few good pictures of our sons flying through the trees on a sunny Colorado morning. I take the opportunity to rest and tighten a binding. The Boys cruise by, kicking up a little snow, I’m sure hoping that Mom got a great picture for their Snapchat story. Then we gather ourselves and head to the chalet for a bite, a drink and a laugh.
That’s our place, and our language.
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