It’s all downhill from here they say meaning it is never going to be better than it is right now, but that is not the case here, today you get to go downhill and then you get to go back to the top and do it again; the downhill is the fun part! The best part! The part we have been practicing and training and trying for since we started, whether that was 2 hours ago or 2 lifetimes ago.
We are, here, now, living for the downhill. That may change when we get in the cars that brought us to this winter wonderland, covered with more snow than nature provides, and motor back to our jobs and school and loves and lives, where it may really be all downhill from here.
But in this spot, filled with its cries of fear and joy muffled by buffs and backed by a soundtrack of music bumping from the lift shacks, it is all about the downhill. Speeding down the manufactured snow, overnight groomed to a precise corduroy greeting early morning riders then flattened to a smooth sheen by wax and dusk.
The smell of burgers on the grill and waffles on the iron envelop the rainbow of snowpants and jackets, traffic cones and the navy blue and high viz orange fences ensuring we are only going downhill where we are supposed to and not heading downhill where it may be a problem, for us or for them. Problematic downhills are for other places. Not here.
Here we are head-to-toe advertisements for the Northface, the resort, Burton, Solomon, K2, Spyder and the others, a rainbow billboard made up of thousands of people rather than pixels, carves instead of corners. Money changing hands in every building and on every surface; snow, wood floor, gravel lot, as the lift gears grind and, somewhere else, it is all downhill from here.
Inspired by the poetry class I am taking in which we were assigned to create a walking around poem where we describe our settings after reading Song of Myself by Walt Whitman and Allen Ginsberg’s Howl and Footnote to Howl
Like going from middle school to high school/ Like voting for the first time/Like paying my own car insurance/Like buying my own pet food/Like making my own doctors appointments/Like dancing in bra and panties around my own apartment/Like saying when I was a kid/Like groaning getting up from the couch/Like realizing wrinkles are a sign of a long life well lived/Like considering gray hair an accessory/Like purging what doesn’t add value
They help me see both up close and far away in just one pair to misplace
Sometimes I wish they could help me see what’s coming
Right now I’m happy
Because this morning they ensured I put ground ginger
Like a driveway moment when a favorite song comes on the radio
Thunder rattles
Eyes dart
Hearts jump
Hands grasp
Lights out
Inspiration – I’m in the online dating scene and connected with this guy who, when he learned I like to write poetry, suggested we collaborate on a poem together. We did this through texting. He wrote the first and we alternated stanzas. We chatted a bit and met once and you can guess by the title the ultimate result.
Plastic wrap gaiters secured with twine protect the transition from cotton sweatpants to leather work boots.
A well-tuned rumble shattering the muffled morning as he heads up the hill to my drive.
Snowy morning smell replaced by fumes of gas and oil immediately unearthing memories of my dad.
This vintage machine, made when machines were mostly metal, is piloted by ages of experience and a depth of mechanical knowledge I envy. It displaces snow practically, usefully, purposefully, precisely out of the way so I can move another machine about which I know so little.
“I’ll help you with the heavy snow at the end of the drive” he says while idling. “Thank you so much” I say. “Just being neighborly” he says, the end of the sentiment engulfed by the increasing throttle as he turns, heading back down the hill to home.
The cushioned silence greets me as I open the door. It’s early enough that snowblower rattles and shovel scrapes are not yet replacing Carolina Wren song.
Plodding through inches of snow, I am not yet ready to begin the tasks required to accommodate a normal day’s activities.
Heading to a flat open spot covered deep in snow, I fall backwards without worry, certain this mattress of frozen hexagons will catch me softly, conforming to my curves as much as any memory foam.
Smiling into the blue sky I move my long arms and legs in arcs, uselessly, impractically, for no reason but sensation, for no purpose but pleasure.
A Picture and a Poem 