Dirty Thirty
A patch for my skiing addiction
By DENIS BERTHOUD

The day started cloudy, mist and fog obscuring any sense of where I was or where I was going. Peaks and valleys remained hidden from my straining eyes. As the clouds slowly lifted, definition increased and my immediate surroundings came into focus. The far distance remained veiled, but at least I could see where I was: a glacier high in the French Alps on a dirty patch of icy snow, riddled with t-bars and summer sliders. Though the patch had seen better days, there was no doubt that I was in a good place.

I allowed a smile and tried not to think of much. I pictured the uncertain, limitless terrain around me. The beautifully curved, mountain-hugging road that brought me here, its tunnels and bridges, deep canyons on one side, steeply rising walls on the other. Two aircrafts, a five-hour layover, a three-hour drive and a virtually sleepless night in a rental car because I'll never learn that no matter how tired I am, I cannot sleep in a sedan.

All that for this. My worn out piece of snow. I wouldn't go so far as to call it beautiful, but it did have its moments. I skidded over choppy snow and sneaky runnels. I jumped over slushy gaps and off of smooth pipe walls.

Being born in July, it never occurred to me to ski on my birthday. But when my thirtieth year found me working in the UK, it just seemed too close to pass up. And rather than feeling the years marching forward on this day, I felt them retreat. I was 10 years old again.

Ten years old on terrain that couldn't have been more different than where I had started. Tall peaks and deep valleys versus modest escarpments and farmers' fields. A 10-hour trip that cost enough to make me blush versus a 20-minute ride in the back of my dad's car that was free in more ways than one. A warm day in the middle of summer versus the biting cold of a Canadian winter.

So much had changed.

But not the wind. And not the smile nor the joy of flirting with gravity on the edge of control. Those were exactly the same.

I bought a round of drinks in the village that night and made a futile attempt to hold on to youth. Stories were shared, days were rehashed. Tenuous bonds searched for and found.

In the end the youths in question were clearly not interested in being held by this guy. So I convinced myself that, though they were pretty to look at, they would be nothing but trouble if I didn't let them go.


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