It was a short, but oh so sweet, conversation this morning.
“Hi Peeps.”
“Hi Mom, what’s up?”
“I just needed to hear your voice.”
Then there was a pause, “Oh right; we’re fine. I have to go now but I’ll call you later.”
Some days it would have been a frustrating conversation, but not this morning. It was true, all I needed was to hear my daughter’s voice something that I knew four other moms, and dads, and husbands would not hear today. You have probably heard of the two avalanches that killed four people over the weekend in Washington State. Four competent, savvy, long-time skiers or snowboarders were killed while skiing out of bounds adjacent to ski areas. They were smart and aware of the conditions but decided to go for the joy of the ride. Today, I mourn for their families.
And I don’t get it. I don’t get the urge to enter untracked steep terrain for the thrill of it, but I know that Melanie and her husband, Ben, do; they were in skiing backcountry this weekend not far from where those skiers died. As Ben wrote so eloquently today on Facebook, “Heading out in the Back- or Slack Country to score breath taking turns in deep powder - the kind of thrill many live for - also means entering the kind of terrain that can kill you…. I’d lie if I didn't say I did all this too in and around Mt. Baker ski resort, not far from Stevens over the past three days. Its the kind of news that makes you pause...” It also made this mother pause to read those words.
I guess you could say that Chris and I are at least in part responsible for Melanie’s love the mountains. After all, we were the ones who strapped skis to the bottom of her tiny five year-old feet and took her to the mountains for the first time. We were the ones who bundled her up, and with her brother, Justin, hit the slopes first thing in the morning, only leaving with the fading light and last chair lift ride.
While Justin and Melanie quickly discovered the speed, and thrills, and great beauty that is downhill skiing, I was the reluctant skier. The reluctant part came from an ill-fated ski trip when Chris and I were first dating. Assured that lessons were not necessary, I innocently allowed myself to be taken to the top of a N.C. ski mountain. While gamely persevering all day, as only a smitten girl might, in the end my severely bruised legs were the outward signs of a very bruised ego. Secretly (and later after we were married, quite vocally) I swore I would never subject myself to such lunacy EVER AGAIN. But as with so much in life, things change—especially when children come along. It only took a few Albany, NY winters that began in November and often did not quit until April cooped up inside with two little shake my anti-skiing bias.
Seeing families skiing happily together even when the kids became teens, I was convinced to give it a try. But I had conditions. I would take a lesson and then I would spend as much time as I wanted/needed on the smallest slope until I began to get comfortable. There would be no spousal coaching or urging to higher peaks. Period. With Justin already able to ski we set off with five year-old Melanie and my thirty-three year old skeptical self.
Of course, while Melanie took to the slopes quickly, I can only say, I was not a natural. That first year skiing several times a month, my competency and confidence grew slowly, eventually reaching the point where making it down a gentle green run typically named “Bunny Run” was almost pleasant. Still, for the longest time, my first thought driving home was gratitude that no one was hurt. We all survived in one piece.
While took a while, eventually I began to actually enjoy myself. Progressively going higher and higher on the mountain and after safely maneuvering Melanie (whose little legs could only reach the ground by jumping) and me off the chair lift, I began to look up and out—as opposed to vigilantly surveying the trail for the least bump. The mountaintop’s vast horizons stretching for miles, whispered of joy, and freedom, and great delight. And once while skiing fresh powder in Colorado, I swear I heard God laugh at the absurd beauty of the day.
Of course, there were also those bonding moments when a fall happened, or we got separated and spent hours finding each other, or I ended up on some icy black diamond mogul field that had me swearing at the ridiculous nature of the sport. There were days of skiing in trash bags in the rain and terrifying drives home in the fog and ice. But blessedly in all those years we skied together, none of us ever sustained any injury more than a bruised ego, until last week in Utah I when managed to break that streak tearing a tendon in my thumb requiring surgery. (Melanie was the first to say that we have skied now for twenty-five years without an injury—not a bad track record.)
It has been years since I really worried about an injury; my thumb is more annoyance than anything else, but the deaths this weekend, remind me just how lucky we have been and how desperately I want for it to remain that way. Melanie and Ben are careful and smart backwoods adventurers. (Smart enough to ask for Avalanche courses and transponders for Christmas. Just the gift a mother dreams of giving her child.) I love that they feel and share that miraculous freedom of the mountains; I want them to continue to know the joy that feeds their souls. But today I am reminded that most of all, at the end of the day, I want them always to be able to innocently pick up the phone, “Hey mom, hey Susan, so what’s up?” That is all I need to hear.
