Peter Shelton

There’s No Place Like Home

Posted in Uncategorized by pshelton on January 4, 2020

Mt. Bachelor January 4, 2020

When I walked into the West Village Lodge, done for the day, I stopped a couple of paces inside the doors and clicked my boots together to remove at least some of the fine powder snow caught in the buckles and packed onto boot soles after the short, powdery trek from the ski rack.

As is my habit, I rocked back on my heels to click the toes together, then tilted onto my toes to click the heels. Mid-ritual, one of the volunteer host guys behind the desk called out, “You gotta click your heels!” I was too slow-witted, too besotted by the spectacular morning to grasp his deeper meaning, and so replied, dumbly, “I do both.”

Sitting back, enjoying a coffee, it came to me that he was referring to ruby slippers and “The Wizard of Oz.” So, on my way back out, I stopped, caught his eye, and clicked my heels together. Without further prompting the two of us quoted, simultaneously, “There’s no place like home.”

That’s what it felt like out there on the mountain today after weeks of a meager snowpack and day-after-day no new snow. A series of small storms to start 2020 and the six inches of blown-cold, mid-density snow that came in last night changed everything. It was like coming home.

Adding to the euphoria was the fact that I finally felt better, after two weeks with a tenacious cold. The virus and the un-Oregon like weather kept me on the couch through the holidays.

I’m a terrible sickie. I feel so sorry for myself. Nothing will ever be good again. My brain will never again find pleasure in the moment. This clogged-ears, snot-stuffed headache is one and the same with lurking depression. Life has no meaning. It’s not snowing. The world is going to hell in a hand basket. I’m not skiing. Woe is me.

So, the contrast from the low-so-low to the high-so-high, was even greater than it might have been had I been in the pink of health.

It was one of those days when everything worked: The boots fit like a glove, the skis felt light and floaty and practically friction free, a serendipitous match of wax to snow temperature and texture. It felt, in fact, like those things attached at the ends of my legs had disappeared. Disappeared into pure action. Eyes see a line – slice between those two mini treetops, bank right through that gravy-boat hollow… The brain judges what might be needed to achieve the line and signals the muscles, the soles of the feet, the balancing hands, the centering hips. And then somehow, alchemy: muscle memory, imagination, faith. The skis bend and arc; the snow pushes back sweetly, like cake flour. And the eyes are out front again, scouting next curves. While inside, in the same way that a whole person, body and brain, merges with campfire flames, or a special piece of music, the only thing to do is melt.

You can go home again. I’d been wandering in the wilderness, but today I rediscovered that seat of ecstatic movement, drawing lines down a mountain of rock transformed, made accessible, cathartic, made sexy by a blanket of new snow.

2 Responses

Subscribe to comments with RSS.

  1. Gerald Oyama said, on January 6, 2020 at 12:51 am

    “We’re on the carousel of life” Judy Collins. May we always be on that Yellow Brick Road. Give me that ol’ time powder snow. Great piece, bro.

    >

  2. Paul Abare said, on January 6, 2020 at 3:35 am

    Peter, I am back skiing full time after 18 years somewhat wasted but none the less enjoyed living on the coast of NC. Your tale of clicking your heels brings a smile. It is a bit like every time I leave the top of the Mt., I click my poles together twice and think Time to Play. Glad your over your cold.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: