Words: Michael “Izzy” Israelson 2023-01-23 09:57:22
Meanie Israelson with a mid-line grin on an unforgettable run down the La Voute, the legendary couloir in La Grave, France, circa 2017. Photo: Michael Israelson Everyone has their muse. I have three. Mountains. Music. Meanie. In the interest of keeping these thoughts focused, I will leave the Mountains and Music out of the conversation. It’s the third “M” that’s on my mind as we settle into the hot tub tonight. “I had a great opening line for a story just now,” I say as the muse entertains my reverie. “Tell me what you think. I make the same sound every time I slip into a hot tub, and that sound is this—and then I interpret the guttural groan I always make. In fact, it might be fun to write a story composed entirely of great opening lines.” The muse nods, but she is holding back. I see her avert her eyes. Just this week, my Meanie learned she needs her fifth surgery to repair a wounded foot. Fifth. That will be three ski seasons in a row watched from the sidelines, three ski seasons watching her young boys blossom into young men on the same mountain that served as our own foothold into the bedrock of a long and wonderful relationship. Mountaineers, especially those of us who ski, come to learn that we each take our turn being injured. The first time sucks. Talismans and superstitions arise. We comfort our friends when it is their turn. We understand the dangers. But skiing, and the eternal hunt for whatever it does inside of us, is worth the occasional setback. It is life well lived, the human embodiment of flying. Maybe it’s more than that, for unlike flight achieved by a bird, skiing sets our souls on fire with the pull of gravity and the delicate dance in which we succumb to it, all while reigning in just enough to survive the fall. Hopefully. Ask anyone who knows Meanie, and they will come up with a similar list of superlatives to describe her stoke—happiest when charging, when under duress, when the going gets tough. I have photos of the muse on 50-plus-degree slopes that scare the piss out of our parents, and her smile still lights up a room. The muse and I share this passion. When we were young(er) and invincible(er), she joined me in New Zealand to bum around, ski and eat cheap noodles with cheap stewed tomatoes in cheap hostels. The muse and I have made a point of wringing the droplets of joy out of life, never acknowledging that the stuff of us hangs always in the balance of staying healthy. Meanie followed me to La Grave. The next time, I followed her. We toured the Andes, the Alps, the Tyrol, Hokkaido. But today, the muse is wounded and what I have to give her pales in comparison to what she has given me. So I give her the only truths I know for certain. Our time on the sideline comes to an end. Gravity and snow remain. Memories of steep passages and the fog of après may not equal a real live day on the mountain, but they help keep the embers stoked. And, more than anything, I tell the muse she has already done her part in the giving. To me. To our boys. And the karmic debts are stacked in her favor. I make the hot tub sound again and the muse rolls her eyes. Pain is real, but love and hope are real too. And they are the coal that helps fuel the fire.
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THE MUSE
https://digital.theskijournal.com/articles/the-muse