One of Many More
I see her and it's winter again
By RILEY McINTOSH

Here now there is a sky filled with sun and from my deck I watch a summery, sandal-wearing girl jog down my street, pulled by her large husky, straining on his leash. The girl is trying to stay on her feet as she is pulled down the steep road in front of my house, her monster of a mountain dog pulling her as though he's caught the scent of his life.

I've seen them both on a few tours above the ski hill, once or twice in the ski lodge. We've never officially met, although we have traveled many similar routes. It's quite a contrast, the girl and her dog: one a slight, pretty figure, the other a sweating, fur-covered train wreck of Arctic ancestry tumbled onto city streets.

The first time I saw them was late January, a snowy mid-morning. A friend and I had muscled up the skin track on our way to a much loved line. There she was, plunked down in the snow, her hands ruffling her monster dog's ears. Beside her was some lucky guy, and by the grin showing behind his steaming Thermos you could tell he knew it. We slid on by as the snow fell around us, her hair gleaming amidst the flakes and dusky weight of the dark midday sky. I was almost shocked by her beauty, such a compliment to the ridges and peaks of the mountains, the smooth snow.

I puffed out a simple greeting: "One more beautiful day on the hill, eh?"

Her companion grunted, his mouth full, and she loudly proclaimed from behind us, "One of many you guys, and one of many more."

We continued to the top in good spirits and didn't rest at all, just threw our Trekkers into our packs before ripping a deep, untouched run. We skied like bandits chased by dark men of the law. The trees around us were slalom gates in a race of high reputation.

At the bottom we elatedly made our way back up to the main road where we hitched a ride in the back of a beater truck that crept up the hill like an obedient old dog. The middle-aged driver proudly told us that he'd been shuttling his kids up to the ski hill for a decade in the damn thing, and it had been used for his own ski touring previous to their arrival, the little buggers. He grinned as we tossed our skis into a pile of snow and hopped out, pounding the rim of his tailgate in thanks.

I stepped into the almost shocking warmth and disarray of the lodge and immediately saw her—the girl from the skin track. She was laughing, attempting to support a toddler whose mother had planted him upon the big dog's back. The kid's winter boots almost disappeared in the fur as he straddled the beast. Our eyes met, and I asked her how her ski was. She spread her arms as wide as they would go, her palms facing me. "This good," she said. I grinned and moved on to the table where my ski partner waited.

Outside the snow continued to fall and the afternoon become a dark, cloudy festival of flying skiers and snowflakes. I skied until the end, breathing only powder and cold air. That day, summer was a dream away, months of melting.


Here now, however, it is hot and dry outside and the memory is months past. But the sight of the girl we passed on the skin track sends me there again. Even in the hot sun I can feel the snowflakes settling on my nose. From the corner of my eye I can see that peripheral spray of snow caused by my downward arc. I can hear her voice from behind us. And one of many more...

And now I am aware that that day was as good as it gets. The snow was deep, my legs were strong, my partner and I zipped up the mountain at a good pace. Above us waited our favorite line of the moment, a fine, blank expanse waiting for no purpose other than to be snowed upon, to support its few scraggly trees, and to accommodate us, skiing downward like mythic journeymen on no assignment. We moved smoothly like waves, or sunshine through leaves, or time arriving with small niceties and memorable moments.

Now the summer sun arcs over us, heating roofs and mountain tops, erasing possibilities of winter snow in heat waves that send me dashing to the beach, that demand tank tops and shorts with no thought of winter coats and ski pants, toques, and warm gloves.

It is with a thought of winter that she leaves me, turning the corner and disappearing from view, of the day I saw her bunkered in the snow with her loyal dog and ski companion. Hot and humid and far away from then as this day may be, at some point she and I will meet again, on some winter slope, with the snow falling like leaves around us. Summer, and even fiery autumn, will be long gone.

Here now on this broiling day I have no real reason to shout a greeting to her. We share a bond in that other season, the time of heavy winter days when cold air steams our breathing, planks beneath our feet as we glide outward and downward through long expanses of light, deep snow. And yet today her words jump out at me, and remind me of a far-away time. Her voice from behind us, clear and laced with snowflakes inside my memory. One of many you guys, and one of many more...


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