Words: Sakeus Bankson 2017-10-31 16:30:03
It started with a simple conversation about trees.
“It’s about halfway down the ridge, the big Douglas fir on your left,” I said, tracing a map out of beer on the table. My friend and I were dropping knowledge on a group of Mt. Baker newbies. It’s a tricky place to navigate, and the 21-year-olds looked at us with a mix of excitement, respect and—as all youth do with their elders, even if they’re only elder by a few years—a smidgen of disregard. “The really big one. Trust me. You’ll know what I mean.
“From there, drop left until you hit the snag about halfway down. Duck hard right under the third hemlock, and you’ll find the line, the super-sneaker, super-epic one I was talking about. I haven’t been there in a while, but you’ll be fine.
“Whatever you do, just don’t go past the next cedar. It looks good, but I mean it. Do. Not. Go. Past. The. Cedar. Beyond the cedar lies certain death.”
“Wait, really? The Doug fir fell down? When did that happen? Five years ago! Wow, I guess it’s been a lot longer than awhile.”
The subject soon turned to other zones and other mountains, but I found my mind continuing down the “tree” vein. I had been thinking about them a lot that season. Some of my travel plans had fallen through, allowing me to ski at home more than I had in years, and earlier that day I had struggled to find a line I’d skied dozens of times while I was in college. It turned out the thicket of tiny firs that had once marked the entrance was now a grove, and when I finally wiggled through to the drop-in, it was bigger than I remembered. So much bigger that I passed it up, opting for adjacent pow turns instead.
It seemed to be a situation I’d been experiencing a lot in previous months. Everything somehow felt different, and after my conversation with the new arrivals, I realized it all had to do with trees.
Don’t get me wrong—at slightly past 30, I don’t consider myself old. I still enjoy pushing myself, but I do take longer to get up from crashes. I have more aches and pains, and I am more selective with my ski days.
So I began to search out those lines, or at least the trees with which I identified them. It was surprisingly difficult, and enjoyably nostalgic. Some I’d skied only last season; for others, it’d been a decade. I passed up many, satisfied to simply remember a time when I was more reckless, more motivated, and—though it hurts my pride to say it—more skilled.
But, like the once-tiny trees I had jumped over obliviously, I realized at that age, skiing’s influence on my life had just begun, even if it was my sole focus at the time. It hadn’t brought me on any trips with my wife yet, nor to Japan with my brother. It hadn’t blown both my shoulders, leading to the most contemplative months of my life. It hadn’t earned me my job, through which I’ve met many of my skiing heroes and some of my best friends. It hadn’t grown into anything with any lasting strength, capable of entirely changing my relationships, my memories and my view on life in general.
I eventually ended up at that super-sneaker, super-epic line, and the Doug fir was most definitely gone. It took a little while, but I found the hemlocks. They were a lot bigger than I remembered, and the space under the third one seemed a lot tighter than before.
The line, however, was just as good. Even better, actually, as a few new options had formed off what were saplings five years ago. Among these arboreal measuring sticks, what had once seemed perfect had only improved with age.
And while it was still tempting, I resisted going past the cedar. Some things never change.
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Don't Go Past The Cedar
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