On Fire
When I was growing up and taking special weekend trips to the snow with my parents, I had a ready-made skiing companion in my sister Shelley. She was not even two years younger, and we took countless trips on the chairlift, skis dangling, heads tilted in collusion over a song or something we thought was funny. We pretended not to know how to disembark from the chairlift, feigning just enough lack of coordination to laugh ourselves silly, but not enough to stop the chair. This seems ironic now, given that Blue, in a heroic attempt to embrace skiing during our dating years, once derailed a chairlift. Or maybe it’s just karma, since my own son is now learning to control his body in a manner my able-bodied sister and I once found so hilarious.
There’s irony in this too, however, since Shelley was born without a hand. But she didn’t let it slow her down. She skied with one pole, bombing down the mountain, her body swaying in lieu of a pole plant, in beautiful arcing turns.
Those days with Shelley were fresh in my mind when Carly, Eliot, and I ventured into a dry mountain landscape in January 2007. In 2006 the Sierra Nevada had received above average snowfall, while the Rockies had experienced severe drought. The following year the Rockies were inundated with snow, while the Sierra Nevada had received sixty percent of normal snowfall by the beginning of February.
At the same time I was well aware of the implications of the drought into which we ventured, I was fascinated by the rocky outcroppings exposed to the sky on the highest peaks. Seeing them from the chairlift, I was reminded of the geologic rumblings that had pushed them to the surface, whereas when they were muffled in snow I did not think much about how they got there. This was brought home most dramatically when, unfamiliar with the landmarks not buried in snow and not the greatest navigator to begin with, I missed the turnoff to Squaw Valley I had taken countless times the past thirty winters. We began the descent to Reno, where I was struck by huge rock formations towering over the highway and seemingly close enough to touch.
As Eliot said after three days of skiing, “There’s a fire out there. Under the rocks. It’s so sad. There’s not enough snow to cover the rocks.”
There would be no tree skiing on this trip. Normally one to seek out the steep and the deep, I stuck to the groomed runs where every turn was effortless, once in a while finding a few moguls of soft snow tucked in under the trees. By our third day at Alpine Meadows where Eliot was enrolled in the Adaptive Ski program, I had covered most if not all the skiable terrain. But I was doing something more fulfilling than powder skiing; I was skiing with my kids. Carly and I were companions in the snow, riding the chairlift time and again as I had with my sister Shelley.
When I recalled Shelley’s and my skiing antics, Carly said, “I wish I had a sister. Instead of Annoying Eliot.”
I couldn’t blame her. But since two kids was my limit, I would have to provide her with the companionship I had been blessed with in my siblings, at least until she and her brother were old enough to be friends. In the meantime, Carly turned to snowboarding and began carving beautiful turns. As for Eliot, he was on fire.
When he was ten he had spent much of the time clinging to the pole his instructor Laura held alongside him. This was a year later, though, and I caught up with him toward the end of his second lesson to snap some pictures. But I use the word “caught up” only figuratively, because in my digital shots he was a blur. Straight-legged and bent at the butt like a jackknife, he shot down the bunny slopes, using his newfound snowplow skills to minimal effect.
As we parted with his instructor Carol, she gave me the red glove, the “hand” at the end of the ski pole that he was supposed to follow, turning when she turned. “He needs to learn control,” she said, “so he can truly be independent.” I agreed wholeheartedly, and as he and I got on the chair lift together, I held the pole with the red glove attached. But when we got to the top of the bunny run Eliot took off, and I skied ten feet behind, waving the pole uselessly and yelling, “Follow the hand!”
After two runs I gave up, leaving the red-gloved pole at the bottom of the run. It was from his instructor that he would have to learn control. From his mother and aunt he had learned all too well: the best way to ski was to Let ‘er Rip.
There’s irony in this too, however, since Shelley was born without a hand. But she didn’t let it slow her down. She skied with one pole, bombing down the mountain, her body swaying in lieu of a pole plant, in beautiful arcing turns.
Those days with Shelley were fresh in my mind when Carly, Eliot, and I ventured into a dry mountain landscape in January 2007. In 2006 the Sierra Nevada had received above average snowfall, while the Rockies had experienced severe drought. The following year the Rockies were inundated with snow, while the Sierra Nevada had received sixty percent of normal snowfall by the beginning of February.
At the same time I was well aware of the implications of the drought into which we ventured, I was fascinated by the rocky outcroppings exposed to the sky on the highest peaks. Seeing them from the chairlift, I was reminded of the geologic rumblings that had pushed them to the surface, whereas when they were muffled in snow I did not think much about how they got there. This was brought home most dramatically when, unfamiliar with the landmarks not buried in snow and not the greatest navigator to begin with, I missed the turnoff to Squaw Valley I had taken countless times the past thirty winters. We began the descent to Reno, where I was struck by huge rock formations towering over the highway and seemingly close enough to touch.
As Eliot said after three days of skiing, “There’s a fire out there. Under the rocks. It’s so sad. There’s not enough snow to cover the rocks.”
There would be no tree skiing on this trip. Normally one to seek out the steep and the deep, I stuck to the groomed runs where every turn was effortless, once in a while finding a few moguls of soft snow tucked in under the trees. By our third day at Alpine Meadows where Eliot was enrolled in the Adaptive Ski program, I had covered most if not all the skiable terrain. But I was doing something more fulfilling than powder skiing; I was skiing with my kids. Carly and I were companions in the snow, riding the chairlift time and again as I had with my sister Shelley.
When I recalled Shelley’s and my skiing antics, Carly said, “I wish I had a sister. Instead of Annoying Eliot.”
I couldn’t blame her. But since two kids was my limit, I would have to provide her with the companionship I had been blessed with in my siblings, at least until she and her brother were old enough to be friends. In the meantime, Carly turned to snowboarding and began carving beautiful turns. As for Eliot, he was on fire.
When he was ten he had spent much of the time clinging to the pole his instructor Laura held alongside him. This was a year later, though, and I caught up with him toward the end of his second lesson to snap some pictures. But I use the word “caught up” only figuratively, because in my digital shots he was a blur. Straight-legged and bent at the butt like a jackknife, he shot down the bunny slopes, using his newfound snowplow skills to minimal effect.
As we parted with his instructor Carol, she gave me the red glove, the “hand” at the end of the ski pole that he was supposed to follow, turning when she turned. “He needs to learn control,” she said, “so he can truly be independent.” I agreed wholeheartedly, and as he and I got on the chair lift together, I held the pole with the red glove attached. But when we got to the top of the bunny run Eliot took off, and I skied ten feet behind, waving the pole uselessly and yelling, “Follow the hand!”
After two runs I gave up, leaving the red-gloved pole at the bottom of the run. It was from his instructor that he would have to learn control. From his mother and aunt he had learned all too well: the best way to ski was to Let ‘er Rip.
posted by Victoria Tatum at 12:18 PM
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