Artificial amber lighting illuminated the snow, allowing skiers to enjoy the runs for longer than the five hours of daylight we had this far north. I headed for the lift.
Laughter and excited chatter filled the sixty-person enclosed gondola. The door slid closed, signaling the start of our six-minute trip to the top of the mountain.
As it transitioned from the wheels to the cable, the lift vibrated. A little girl next to me clutched her mom’s leg, whimpering at the uneasy swaying of the car.
“It’s okay, baby. We’ll be skiing soon,” said the mother, soothingly.
The softness of the girl’s mother contrasted sharply with the tense relationship I had with mine. I’d always imagined if I’d had a daughter, I would have comforted and soothed her just like this one. Sadness crept into my heart at the thought that I might have missed the opportunity to feel that joy.
I patrolled with Thomas. We’d worked together a number of times over the past few winters and had become good friends. We knew each other’s downhill patterns and were familiar with our expressions of concern.
I was only a part-time National Ski Patrol volunteer. This week, though, I was filling in for a young patroller who’d wanted to spend Christmas week with his family in Seattle. As a result, Thomas and I had spent more time together.
My shift ended up being uneventful. No injuries. No distress. No broken bones. No drama.
After the runs were cleared and closed, Thomas and I took one last trip up the tram. Our last job of the day was to make sure no one was left behind on the mountain, that no one was hurt, and that everyone was back at the resort safe and sound.
I pulled my gloves off, stuck them between my knees, and adjusted the strap of my helmet.
“The snow was good today,” I said to him.
He leaned against the handrail, gripping the cold steel with his hands. “Yeah, it wasn’t bad. Supposed to get dumped on in the next few days.”
“That’s good. People staying for Christmas will love that.”
I put my gloves back on and gripped the overhead handle as the gondola rolled over the supporting towers. I swayed back and forth with the force.
He asked, “Are you going to see your family over Christmas?”
“Nope.”
He chuckled, “That was an abrupt answer.”
“They are all staying in Colorado. I didn’t want to travel.”
The gondola rolled into the landing and the doors slid open, saving me from having to elaborate further.
“Ready to make a final run?” I asked.
He nodded in the direction of downhill. “I’ll follow you.”
The lack of skiers on the snow provided a quiet solitude that should have been cathartic and peaceful. But my thoughts snuck in, drowning out the rhythmicswish-swooshof my skis on the snow.
When I’d left Denver, my mind had been so clouded with pain that I ran without thinking through my actions. I knew I had to get as far away as possible, but I hadn’t considered proximity to the North Pole when making my decision. Hawaii and Alaska were the furthest from mid-America. Hawaii didn’t have skiing, so that was out.
Looking back, normal daylight and drinks on the beach might have been a better option than bears roaming the streets like stray dogs and midnight sun in the summer.
A flash of red flew past me, coming to a hockey stop and forcing me to stop before slamming into him. “What? Are you okay?”
He scowled. “Yeah, are you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re daydreaming, Liz. You were flying down the hill without even checking the trees or looking around. You were skiing recklessly.”
I dropped my head and fought sudden tears. “I am so sorry. My mind wandered.” Ashamed, I asked, “Were you able to look around? Is there anyone left on the mountain.”
He stood silent, his brows furrowed. It was a moment before he asked. “Was it that guy? Did he upset you?”