Page 80 - Dark Matter Issue5 Part II
P. 80
of water. I chose the town where I live because it is well known as the center of a snow belt. I feel
most fully alive in winter gliding on my skis through the forest. I am nostalgic for all that winter means
and has meant to me.
It is February and I breathe heavily,
climbing on wooden skis through
Nebraska Notch toward the junction
with the Long Trail below Mount
Mansfield. I am twenty-two. Gregg is
ahead of me on the trail, his coat an
occasional patch of blue through the
thick flakes that fall, wetting our faces,
sticking like icing to our wool hats. A
few inches of new snow allows me to
easily angle my skis as we
herringbone the steep sections. Our wax holds, the skis grip, and I use my arms to anchor metal
poles and push downward. At the trail junction, a wind gust obliterates our visibility; Gregg looks
back to me. I nod that I want to continue. Our destination is Taylor Lodge, a favorite spot, and I mean
to get there one more time before I leave. Through blinding snow we press slowly on, focused on
finding the white blazes on trees that mark the trail. We travel like this for at least a mile, and just as
I realize I am scared, the snow lets up and begins to fall gently. Beneath our skis, the powder is deep.
Above us, clouds rise in between firs and balsams. I feel my effort lessen as we start to glide down
toward Taylor, kicking with long strides through fresh snow. It's so easy now. I love this, more than
anything.
Soon, the roof of the lodge comes into view.
We tamp down a smooth place with our skis, remove them, and hop up onto the porch. Snow buries
the stairs. Little paths have been worn through snow to the half-door and along the porch. We kick
new fluff from in front of the door and open it. Inside we shed our parkas and put on the down vests
we pull from our packs. After slipping on spare hats and gloves, we retrieve our lunch: a thermos of
tomato soup, cheese, and bread. We place the meal on the wooden table and sit next to each other on
the bench.
