Thoughts from the tops of two mountains.

I have been out west skiing for the past few days. I come out here to clear my mind; it just so happens that the best way to do that involves several thousand vertical feet in which I can find something with rocks, trees, moguls, or a slope approaching 70 degrees. The more criteria a slope meets the better. Nothing like a little risk to focus the mind, and a little incline to concatenate the distance from thought to action.

The first of the two resorts we hit was Alpine Meadows. This is the family and locals resort of North Tahoe. Most resembling its VT and NH counterparts, it has a lodge framed by huge wooden beams, a green/brown/red interior motif reminiscent of the cup of hot cocoa by the fireplace stereotype. Locals here leave boot bags with sack lunches all over the lodge - in contrast to the normal practice at tourist traps - the locker or the basket check.

Conditions were not ideal, but if you are looking for ideal I think Scuba or perhaps golf is more your style. Skiing is about finding the highest mountain in the area and cutting just enough trees to make it passable. Toss in a few sticks, cables, chairs, and tanks-tracked tractors and you have yourself a ski resort. The wind still whips the slopes, the sun still beats down to create ice sheets over fresh powder on one day and to soften the bulletproof pack into slush on others. Right now, it is doing the latter. Based on the solid coat of zinc I have on my nose all day, it is doing it quite well.

That's a lot of setup for a simple thought, which came at the end of the day on Sunday. All day, the clouds that would coat Lake Tahoe were drifting in over Alpine Meadows, making for overcast conditions. Luckily, the mountains act as ski jumps, vaulting warmer valley air over the summit to protect us little people. But in the evening the sun broke through, permitting one to experience what a storm system moving at 40mph really looks like. If you were able to lay under the water and watch Niagra drive past your face and shoot into the abyss back behind your head, it would engender the same sense of awe at the immensity of this constant movement.

Winds from the West, escaping the setting sun meant the loss of warm valley air. We were hit with the cold blast, playing whirlwinds on the snows dunes at the summit. Skiers entered and emerged like momentary specters. Then the intense blue with rays piercing through the whirlwinds, lighting them. This is the kind of shot that elicits a verbal retort, like Aurora Borealis, or an air shot of a stampeding herd of water buffalo, or the best of Ansel Adams. A few minutes later, you think, "man that was amazing, but must have sucked to be there." Well, it doesn't. It's just makes you say "Wow," with and in spite of every one of the rest of your senses.
Three runs, I huddled on the chair as it crested the last ridge and watched this scene unfold. Three times, I alighted as a specter. And three times, the specter vanished into the trees.

more soon as I set to return.