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Photo:
Stephen Matera |
Silence of the Trams
By DENIS BERTHOUD
The wind was howling. The snow was blowing sideways and I felt guilty for bringing the liftie out of his warm shack every time I entered the lift corral. Too cold for speech, I'd offer a hooded nod as a token of my enduring thanks.
There had to be less than ten people on the hill, and I never saw more than two of them at once. I'd spot red coat guy coasting onto the flats, yellow one-piece slicing a clean line through the trees, blue helmet and pink hat discussing how cold they were. All were partially blurred by the driving snow.
Another run completed, I headed to the loading zone. The liftie stepped out and I moved for the chair. So did yellow one-piece.
I had positioned myself in the middle, as I am wont to do when riding single, but now shifted to the other end before letting the bar drop. "Cold, eh?" he spoke from beneath his many layers.
"Yup," I said, not too pleased with this invasion of private space. Like a stranger who sits next to you in an otherwise empty movie theater, yellow one-piece burst my bubble. I'd be damned if I was going to engage this invader with any small talk, so I commenced the straight-ahead stare.
Yellow one-piece didn't say a word. He sat there, chin tucked down, shoulders hunched, body curled in heat-saving mode.
The chair creaked forward, the only noise above the wind. I kept waiting. Waiting for some banality to escape my companion's lips so I could shoot him down. Waiting to express my displeasure at his intrusion on my solitary world.
We approached the top and still he said nothing. I wondered about him. I wondered who he was and why he hadn't waited for the next chair. Why join me if he had no intention of engaging in platitudes?
I went to raise the bar, which snapped him out of his sheltered state. The off-ramp approached and he finally turned to me.
"Have a good run," he said.
"You too," I replied.
Next: number 1
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