Talk Without Speaking

I could be off by a year or so but, to the best of my knowledge yesterday was the first time that Axe and I had skied together in 17 years, half a lifetime ago.

Remembering my first experience with Whistler (this is no Camp Fortune, people) I was in no hurry to get up there – I knew that we would be hard-pressed to make it to the close of the lifts anyway, energy-wise. Axe and I are not relaxed skiers – we are skiers who push muscles to breaking points.

Anyway, we were at Park Royal grabbing some food and coffee for the trek up to Whistler and I guess it was shortly after 9am. Waiting in line for my coffee I suddenly had a memory or thought of my father. I don’t remember what it was. What I do know was that it was the first time I had thought of him and I had been up since massively sleeping in til 5:55am. It doesn’t sound like much. But it was. I was terrified to think that I could go three hours of a day. I felt so sad. So guilty. So confused. I thought that if I could go for three hours then surely there will be a day when it is four. Or eight. Or twenty-four. It might not sound like much to you but to me it was a sickening, saddening, terrifying, awful feeling.

Normally I let the white-noise of skiing blot out everything but today I held the memory of my father close. Overall it was tough and there were a few moments where the wind picked up and the snow swirled around me and everything surreally becomes uniformly white and I wondered if I was going crazy; if any of this is really happening.

However, lower on the mountain, on my firmly established favourite Blackcomb run, Ridge Runner, the sun broke through and everything glowed and my spirit lifted and I poured all of my energy into my skies and I pushed myself until my breath gasped and my muscles burned and I thought my dad would be proud.