The Ski Journal • Volume 16, Issue 3 • RHYTHM

Warm stoves, drying skins and a table full of maps and possibilities. Cabin moments in the British Columbia backcountry. Photo: Guy Fattal

The helicopter had left hours ago. Beds had been chosen, skins put to skis and a week’s worth of sandwich supplies, fruit snacks and boxed soup stowed in kitchen cupboards. Topographic maps were unfurled across long tables of knotty pine as ski boots piled up next to the cast iron stove. Two satellite radios, our only links to the outside world, sat next to a large frost-kissed window.

Before I could crack my first pilsner, Mike leaned in. “Hey bud, we’re finally in it now,” he said, a smile creeping across his face. “Welcome to the Rhythm.”

At that point, I didn’t think I could even say the word, much less welcome it. After monumental ice storms, white-knuckle passes and a COVID-challenged border crossing, we’d barely made it to Fairy Meadows, the legendary Alpine Club of Canada hut in the gut of the Adamant Range. Now, after our usual nine-hour approach clocked in at closer to 22, we were feeling a little less rhythmic, and a lot more out of sync.

I needed this trip. The cumulative stress of a long year was causing cerebral overuse injuries and I had to tap out. Bad. But shutting down is hard to do when life revolves around plugging in. I stared at my phone, now just a silly black box of plastic and computer chips, and had a fiendish itch to check my laptop battery life. The one in my Seattle apartment. Strange waves of anxiety washed in, guilt about needing to be somewhere else, doing something more. For family. For friends. For coworkers. I squirmed in my base layers. What should I do…with my hands?

The hut whirred around me. James chopped wood. Peter synced radios. Mike uncovered the alpine stream and the two Wills shouldered water jugs. Julia and Krystin pored over maps and collected group objectives. Micah started a fire.

Somewhere in between we skied. Ants marching up into looming evergreens. Storm clouds nixed the high alpine but provided consolation in deep, tree-bound turns.

When darkness fell, George heated up après soup as Jen prepped dinner. Cody fired up the sauna. We all toasted to good fortune and tired legs. Card games replaced maps. Somebody (not me) did the dishes.

The next morning, things slowed down. Not in a physical sense—we had skiing to do after all—but in a way that brought the pace into focus. Away from the imagined comfort of distractions, our day now moved along a soothingly singular current. Chores. Ski. Chores. Repeat.

Thru-hikers on the Appalachian Trail describe a similar sensation. The first few days of trekking break people down—both physically and mentally. Amid sore hips and blistered feet is the frustration of not really accomplishing all that much. But eventually the feeling of putting one foot in front of the other doesn’t just become enough, it becomes everything. The world around them darts and weaves its way through a laundry list of to-dos, but they stay the course, their only objective to make it as far as they can that day. In the simplicity of their rhythm, they find untapped power.

I picked up a jug. Following Josh, I headed to the creek and found Mike leaning over the rushing water. He filled my blue plastic container, handed it back to me and pointed up the hill. The clouds were parting and as I stumbled back toward the hut, I wondered if we could do this forever.

The Ski Journal - Volume 16, Issue 3

RHYTHM

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