LIKE CHRISTMAS YODEL Artwork: Colin Clancy Words COLIN CLANCY I WOKE TO avalanche cannons blasting on Christmas morning and felt strangely out of place. Bill had headed off to work without waking me. I’d grown accustomed to his snoring. Without it, the si-lence, broken every few minutes by booming explosions, seemed vast. The falling snow muted the light, dulling it into a far more soothing white than the sunlight that usually flooded in each morning. A faint outline of the mountain disappeared into the curtain of snow. Infinite flakes, smaller than usual, floated to the ground as if in slow motion. I stood there in awe for a minute before getting dressed for work. I hoped that none of us would have to teach. This endless powder would be my Christmas present. Only six kids came for lessons. Kylie and Ryan both got classes, so I was alone with free time. The snow fell so thick that riding up the lift I couldn’t see the chair in front of me. The haul rope vanished into nothing. The snow offered a feeling of solitude. I couldn’t see any other skiers and as far as I cared, they didn’t exist. I hot lapped the trees under Sierra all morning without seeing another person besides the lifties. I made fresh tracks every lap. The champagne powder slowed me down and my skiing style became more fluid, almost graceful. Snow burst into my face with every turn. It stuck to me and froze in my beard. Just after noon some kids found Sierra. They were half a lap behind, on the hill when I was on the lift. I could barely see them bobbing in and out of the coldsmoke. The intense snowfall muffled their screams and laughter like a mute in a trumpet bell. I caught up to them then took off to Silver Bowl to be alone again. I didn’t bother to go in for lunch; life was too good out there in the back bowls. This day didn’t feel like Christmas. Christmas was in Michigan. This was a gorgeous December day, but it wasn’t Christmas. It was lonely back there but pleasant. There are no friends on a powder day anyway. Despite fogged goggles, burning thighs, and the dank smell of wet leather gloves I felt as happy and free as I could remember. I rode Mountain Chief until last chair and didn’t want to be done. Back in the village Jingle Bell Rock played over the speakers. A bonfire burned in the middle of the plaza and flames danced in the surrounding torches. I carried my skis to McGillycuddy’s and dumped them in the snow outside. The bar was empty except for Muppet who sat at a table watch-ing A Christmas Story on the TV behind the bar. A small, Charlie Brown tree glowed in the corner. “Merry Christmas!” he yelled, jumping up from his chair and running over to wrap me in a massive bear hug, lifting me off the ground. “Doesn’t much feel like Christmas,” I said. “I need some boozy eggnog, or a beer at least.” “Sure doesn’t,” he said, heading back behind the bar. “You’re first one away from home too?” I nodded and then swigged from the pint of Guinness he put in front of me. “My ma’s called me three times today,” he said, “crying that her baby isn’t home for Christmas.” He poured a couple shots of peppermint schnapps. He raised his glass and said, “Here’s to Santa Claus.” We clanked them together. “And to Jesus and stuff.” We knocked our glasses on the bar top then took the shots, which tasted like candy canes but so much better. The Ski Journal 101
The Ski Journal Volume 16, Issue 3: Page 101
