SLOPE OPERA SHE NUZZLES IN CLOSE. Not too close, just the right amount of close, the head-on-the-shoulder technique that implies familiarity after a long separation. She whispers to me, “I don’t care about the rest of the world. It doesn’t matter.” I reply coyly, the words hanging frozen on the air, “Why did you leave me?” “Because it’s what I do. Because it’s what I always do,” she says. My heart a mixture of longing and defiance, I knew I needed to feel her touch right then. Even through my mittens. “I know it is,” I continue. “It’s good to see you.” Like a breeze, she brushes her flaxen hair out of my eyes, add-ing a cool breath to my otherwise warm balaclava. I wonder to myself what the right words are. Sometimes no words are right, so I speak only the truth. “I saw you dressed in white. My heart raced. I don’t care that you leave. I always know where to find you.” Now it’s her turn to play the game. “You could have found me,” she says. “I moved south.” “You always do,” I answer. “Then why don’t you follow me?” She asks. “Because you like the thrill of playing hard to get,” I say. With an icy gaze, she pauses for a breath. “But you found me before. Do you remember?” She says, “I was in the Andes. With your friends. You came to find me, and I was there. I smiled at you.” “I know you did. I did. We did,” I admit. Her grip tightens. The recollection of our years spent tangled in one another’s passionate webs causes each of us to shift, not un-easily, but like two dogs nuzzling into a common pillow—deeper, closer together. “Well, I’m back,” she whispers. “Thank you,” I say. And I mean it. It is good to see her. Like hearing a favorite song. Or smelling the first woodsmoke on a cool autumn night. “I’ll be here for a while. I don’t ask for much. Please make sure that we have fun together,” she says. “We always do,” I respond. A coolness fills the room and with it a sense of familiar zen. Outside it’s starting to snow. The warmth of the hearth is matched only by the longing I feel when reunited with this perennial love. Soon we will be entangled in a downhill dance dictated by the frozen creation that first brought us together. The temporal nature of a sea-sonal love affair. Every fall, my pulse quickens in anticipation of her return. Through the change of colors and season, we relearn our conversa-tion. As the years pass, it becomes easier. The mechanics of the relationship are well established. Winter brings me happiness, and I show my appreciation and love. We are an old couple now, and this dance is a consistent part of life, even if the songs are slower than they used to be. IZZYISMS Words MICHAEL “IZZY” ISRAELSON Skier and season, a love affair as complex—and beautiful—as the Mountain West snowpack. Photo: Ryan Creary
The Ski Journal Volume 16, Issue 1: Page 32
