Kid Visions
You want a piece of my heart? Better start
from the start.
By KRISTOPHER KAIYALA

I am cold, shivering. A solar-orange ember glows on the pre-dawn horizon. I'm sitting on a wooden swing grasping two ropes that lead infinitely upward into the cobalt-blue sky. The Earth bends beneath me, miles away, while above me the thin atmosphere gives way to the fisheye vault of space. Despite the frigid air I am buoyed by a piercing sense of utter calm, a feeling that I can never, nor should ever, leave this place.

A sharp whistle and a metal clanging sound. I fight to hold on to the dream, to prolong the feeling of the dream, but the teapot screaming bloody murder on the stove is just too much. I wake up in bed in a sitting position, aware of the pungent scent of coffee. Sunlight streams through my windows, painting white squares on the wall and floor. Almost time to go, he speaks from the doorway, and then I remember: it's Saturday. I stumble out of bed and quickly dress and gather my gear.

We take the Beetle instead of the Blazer, strapping skis vertically to the rear rack with rubber cords. The heat barely works anymore. I am cold and shivering. Ice-box air from outside whistles sharply through a triangular corner window that doesn't quite shut. The road to Mt. Spokane winds through rural farmland, a two-lane capillary slicing in half undulating fields of wheat and flax. Straining to see over the dash, I count off memorized intersections, billboards, creek crossings, highway bends, road signs. Though familiar as home, I welcome each with something like surprise.

The road climbs through a thick grove of towering Ponderosas. Their green-needled branches momentarily blot out the sun, preserving the morning's frost on asphalt, but soon we exit onto a fertile plateau to a stunning view. The cone-shaped peak stands freshly whitened, towering high above perfectly tilled fields and blue foothills. My stomach knots. I wonder if anyone else ever feels or understands what this vista means. I steal a quick glance and see that Dad, too, is smiling.

I search for friends on Chair 2 while Dad clocks in to teach at the ski school. I lap Northwest Passage most of the morning, bouncing in and out of the trees to catch air off of small jumps. I'm reckless, invincible in my grey stretch pants, blue-padded wool sweater, and mirrored I-Ski sunglasses. Everyone's watching, to see what you will do...

I burn through bumps and exit onto the cat track, burning a hard right, knees low, skis fully on edge. Everyone's lookin' at you, oh...

I weave around others on the track, easily the fastest skier ever, and take a sudden, hard left-hand turn (the crowd roars its elated surprise!) and launch off the edge of the track into suspended animation. Everyone's wondering, will you come out tonight?

I hang in the air for minutes, at least. Slow-motion, weightless, flying. The dream. Everybody's goin' off the deep end...

I cannonball into the corn snow in a spray of white fireworks (again the crowd!) and stick the steep landing, then point 'em straight to the base of Chair 3 with lights and sirens blazing behind me. You wanna piece of my heart, better start from the start. I'm twelve years old. I'm totally on fire. You wanna piece of the show, c'mon baby let's go!

Dad and I meet at noon under the blazing sun and ski through his lunch break on B-29. We spread-eagle out of tree wells, bank off of massive snow drifts. There is no age difference. He, I, the mountain.

I show off and he indulges me. He says "watch this" as he purposefully crashes into a rime-covered tree and I groan with laughter. We exchange few words on the chairlift. Why bother? Nearly all our common interests are here: wilderness, freedom, fun. We're coupled by invisible machinations. On Saturdays the world remains far away.

Dad goes back to work at the ski school while I head to the Beetle for a soggy peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Before I kick out of my skis I turn and gaze at the sun-baked mountaintop. I study the way in which the white cone meets the blue empyrean, a seamless, elegant contrast of elements and hues. I feel the way the slope declines, the pressing of eons of geology. I sense how a high place commands reverence.

I sense that I will always need to be close to the sky.


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