Coming from a farming family, I learn to ski late. There were no models at hand. Our Norwegian neighbors used to ski in Washington state, but gave it up after Agnes shattered her ankle at Dodge Ridge. The first time I went to the snow I was mesmerized by the tump and soft thud of snow falling from pine bows, the glistening sugar drifts that had gathered during the night, transforming the world into something shiny and new. Out of the darkness, the winter light took on a balance of light that was nearly blinding. The sharp stinging of the wind, laden with snowflakes, kept us in time present as we trudged towards the lift, and to the old car, chilled to the bone after the last long run down the slopes. I was newly arrived to the concept of skiing, having learned late, at age 19. I was eager to leave the bunny slopes and the snow plow behind. But I had to pay for my lack of experience. See, I never had a bike, one Christmas, a shiny new bike with tassles was in the driveway, so unexpected, like a unicorn. But I no sooner saw it, then I had to give it up. My cousin had polio. He needed it for his leg, they said. When I tried to learn to ice skate in college, it was the same thing. I never roller skated either, skates were not particularly useful when you grew up on unpaved country roads. I was all knees, it was not like riding horses at all. But I was determined, though I was the most awkward skater at Raydine’s ice rink, I persevered, and by the end of that semester, I graduated to a passable figure skater. And then, one day it gelled, I was flying across the rink, spinning like an imploding star, opening my arms like a super nova. The dizzy world of lights and stars over me. I transferred that skill to skiing. I was racing down the slopes of Boreal Ridge. It was if a light switch had been flipped on. I was elated, over the moon, skiing all day and well into the night. The full moon rose over a transformed white world and the tump of snow falling from the pine branches, the stillness and the silence of the night became a refuge. The freedom and ease of the wind that burned my ears as I tore down the slopes with my newfound skills. You’d think those years on horseback would’ve given me a leg up, but curiously they didn’t, as riding a horse is a partnership, you take care of each other, while skiing was pushing the limits of gravity. There is only yourself defying the odds of trajectory and speed. I knew the physics and geometry of my body and the angle of slope. That season we skied Boreal and then outgrew its tiny slopes. We were addicted to speed and developing mad skills. My boyfriend and I, having learned to ski so late in life, we had to overcome our grown-up sensibilities to define the angle of slope and depth of snow. That year we skied the double black diamond runs of Sugar Bowl, and Squaw Valley, leaving behind the tame intermediate slopes of Sierra Ski Ranch, and Homewood, but we always came back to Boreal Ridge where we first learned to ski, having slept in the car in that parking lot too many nights, too poor to afford a room. We saved our money for lift tickets, ski rentals, and gas. There was no budget for food—save forman occasional hot chocolate. We were snow crazy voracious skiers. We even skied off Mt. Tam during a rare snowstorm, ruining our skis on rocks. Winter weekends we threaded our way up Highway 80 from the Bay Area, hungry for the slopes, carefully avoiding all mention to that somber monument to the Donner Party.
this was supposed to be a poem but it morphed into prose. Oh, well. Should I try and hack a poem from it?
Terri Glass’ Write On ~ a Generative Poetry Gathering
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