Photo: Frank Petronio

Buried Treasures
By JOE WILHELM

In the darkness of morning, eyes open before the alarm sounds. A silent awakening. Intoxicated by thoughts of a day on the mountain, but at first all is quiet.

Like not wanting to say the wrong thing to a pretty girl, nothing is said to upset Mother Nature. Heartbeats and the faint hint of breathing are the few sounds that invade the drive to the slopes. Gear on, skis slung over shoulders, and smiles. Don't make a sound.

Nervous energy abounds, but it is harnessed. There are few spaces between snowflakes, yet they don't come crashing down to Earth. They ease their way down and land when they are ready. Random hoots and hollers finally break the silence, but they are in the background. Rookies. Taunt Mother Nature and she'll spank you and send you home.

Instead we are pirates, none of us wanting to give up the secret to the buried treasures on the hill.

Silence is briefly broken as skis shuffle to the loading line. The chair rumbles down the line and slows to a creep behind us. Four of us are scooped up like a Dairy Queen special and begin the ride to the top. Silence once again drowns out the competition. It's neither mean nor ominous. It's that boxer-in-the-locker-room-before-the-fight silence.

It pushes the hum and rattle of the lift to the background. It's early, so there aren't a lot of people screaming down the hill yet. Everyone sneaks a look at the person next to them during the ride up. Most have helmets on, so it's hard to hear heads moving. Everyone tries to figure out what's going on inside that plastic envelope on the shoulders of the person beside them.

In the silence we relax and lean back and take in the storm. Listen to the faint sizzle of snowflakes on a hot tongue. Look at the patterns of the big flakes as they land on pants, gloves, and skis.

At the top, silence squares off with a variety of sounds: the hum of the chair around the bull wheel, going back down the mountain; skis sliding and hissing down the snow from the chair. Then it gets serious. Metal and plastic buckles are snapped down on ski boots.

The hiss follows as we fade away from the top and use gravity to battle the howling wind that scours the top of the mountain. Just like the sand in a timer used during a game of Scrabble, the snow fills in any tracks made ahead of us.

Diving into the trees, sight lines increase and the howling winds are kept at bay by pine boughs. The branches creak and crack while battling against the wind. They help our cause, but we pay them little mind as the snow bouncing off our bodies sounds similar to waves crashing on a beach.

Silence returns.

We stop near the bottom and look up at the serpentine lines draped all over the slope. Soon they will be wiped from existence by the storm. Smiles don't make a sound.


                                                                                        Next: number 2

 Discuss this story in our Workshop forum