It’s late when we head out. My friend picks me up after we’ve both fed and gotten our kids ready for bed, long after dark. We secure our skis on top of her car, throw our poles in the trunk, make sure our headlamps are working, then drive to the ski resort, where the lifts have stopped turning hours ago and the lights of snowcats are slowly moving over the ski runs, grooming the snow for downhill skiers the next morning. It’s cold when we park beside the ski lodge, but we resist the temptation to add another layer, knowing we’ll be warm as soon as we start uphill. She hands my skis to me, joking about how heavy they are. I lift hers; they are considerably lighter. She should know. She sold mine to me when she replaced them with her fancy, light new pair.
We dig our skins out of our backpacks and stick them to the bottoms of our skis, set our heel pieces to compensate for the angle of the hill we’ll be climbing, and I lengthen my adjustable ski poles. We walk down the stairs to the base of the ski hill, where the snow starts, click into our skis, and start uphill, our dogs romping joyously in the snow ahead of us. We try to keep them close to us, so we will notice if they stop to poop. This is the last ski resort in the county that allows dogs. We try hard to not let them poop on the ski run and ruin it for all the dog owners who love to come here and ski with their dogs before the lifts start turning in the mornings and after they shut down in the evenings.
There is something about climbing after dark. Sensory deprived, ones world shrinks to the snow gliding under ones skis, the faint glow of the moon not yet risen over the peaks and the star laden sky, Orion braced over the East Wall, his bow aimed into the sky over our heads, the three stars in his belt glittering brightly.
It’s hard work, so although we try to talk to each other, catching up on each other’s lives, it is difficult and we lapse into long periods of companionable silence. Our legs lift our feet attached to our skis, lift and plant, lift and plant, skis and boots heavy, the hill rising in front of our faces. Sweating inside our clothes, our faces cold, the gentle breeze across our cheeks, nothing else matters except to keep moving forward. Turning around reveals the ski lodge far below, showing how far we have climbed. At last, the mid-mountain lodge appears over the hill ahead of us. We could turn around here, but it would be a disappointingly quick ski down, so we keep climbing. We’ve risen above treeline soon, just as the moon peeks over the massive rock wall to our left, illuminating the snow around us, casting our shadows far to our right. We switch our headlamps off because we don’t need them. With the moonlight comes the illusion of warmth. Still we climb, on foot in front of the other, over two thousand feet into the sky, until the final push, so steep our skis, with their grippy mohair skins, want to slide backwards beneath us and we have to stomp to set them deeply into the packed snow. And finally, the top meets us, and we stand on the ridge, a few vehicle lights winding their war down the highway over the pass, moonlight casting shadows on the peaks around us. The dogs flop down beside us, grinning and panting, grateful for the chance to rest. They lick the snow from between their toes. We peel the skins from our skis and stash them in our packs, I shorten my poles, and we fasten the heels of our bindings down, fastening our boots to our skis, and turning our headlamps on, we pause, grinning in anticipation. And then we’re off, the snow gliding silently under our skis, carving hard into the silvery moonlight and inky shadows, crouched low and prepared to absorb the terrain beneath us, should we hit bumps we don’t see. The circle of light in front of reveals a blur of white.
Halfway down, we pause, letting the dogs catch up. They slow from their dead run and trot up, panting, and lick our hands, and as soon as we turn to face our skis downhill again, they are off like little furry rockets, kicking up snow from their churning paws. They run like the wolves they no longer are, streaking shadows in the moonlight, in a straight line down the ski run as we carve large s-turns behind them.
We slide to a stop at the bottom, glowing, wishing the descent didn’t have to end. An hour of hard climbing for a few minutes of moonlight flight. It is worth every uphill step.
The dogs flop down in the backseat, exhausted and happy. We drive home, back to our responsibilities, and promise to do it again soon.