Brutal. Several other skiers have used this term, unprompted, to describe the weather on the front side of the mountain today. During the long ride up the lift, when I pass over a great void, suspended high between two distant lift towers, the snow comes in at a hard angle. Despite the silence there is a force to it. A howl hides at the edge of those fast moving flakes. A shout hidden in the moments before it is voiced. There is an unrelenting unfairness to it. I, a drop of warmth, barely shielded, high above a frozen Earth, pulled at a constant pace towards the end. I am heading away from the calm. The snowfall increases. I am only aware of my skis due to their weight. What is that inner voice that says jump. Lift the bar and fall into the white. Let us compare, on the rocks below, our fragile wetness to that of a snowflake. Who’s voice is this? There is no sadness to it. Only curiosity. Should we not add red to the white? A shudder. The destination approaches. I feel it before I can see anything. I must disembark into the blinding storm. Brutal.
About the Creator
Stéphane Dreyfus
Melanchoholic.
Struggling to obey the forgotten rules.
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Comments (1)
No red to the white! Wonderful story!