"The Last Run"

I watch as the snow drifts slowly down from the heavens like pure white down feathers, only to find its final resting place on the ground and the trees around me. The only sound I hear is the crunch it makes beneath my feet as I start my trek up the steep slope of the mountainside ahead of me. I didn't actually climb this beast of a mountain all the way up on this fine winter's day, but, instead, used the ski lift to carry me up to the top. I can only imagine just how long the trek may take during good weather, but not during an impending storm like the one that is beginning to show its' face in the air surrounding me. I would hate to have to walk the cold, solitary paths I can barely make out below me, in hopes that I don't get lost among the various trails carved into this old mountainside, let alone the twists and turns and crevices that mother nature herself created with her diligent and constant onslaught of wind and rain over the years and centuries long since gone. I speculate that the trek on foot may very well be a few hours of uphill walking with a few interspersed breaks for rest and hydration. But, by lift, I can confidently say that it takes only about ten to twenty minutes depending on how far up the slope you want to go, and the view on the way there is always amazing. Fear of heights, be damned!

Standing as close to the summit as I ever get, I spend a few minutes just taking in the breathtaking landscape that encapsulates me. The air is cold and crisp, and while there are other winter sports enthusiasts around me, I feel alone in my bubble of warm clothes and swirling winter snow. Pressing play on the mp3 player in my pocket, I drop my board to the ground, barely hearing the distinct thunk it makes on contact with the packed snow over the music now blaring in my ears. I ready myself for the trail I'm about to cut down the slopes below me with my board now once again strapped tight to my feet. I rode the lift up with it attached to my feet, but unhooked my bindings so I could explore a bit more and choose my path for my last run of the day. Now, having made my choice among the stark whiteness of the snow-covered landscape before me, I ready myself for the journey. Standing at the top of my chosen trail, I check my bindings once more. I've used and abused them so much on my previous runs, that I may have to get new ones soon. I take a deep breath, just as the next song starts playing in my ears. It will set my tempo for this run. I visualize my way in my mind's eye, and then a heartbeat later, I hop into motion and start gliding down over the fresh-fallen snow.

Today, I've decided to be less explorer and more experiencer and go where others have already gone before me. Following their deep well-worn grooves that mark a distinct path down each trail of this daunting mountainside, I'll be just another one of many that have made a temporary mark in this mountain's memory, and my trail will be erased behind me by the wind, the snow, or another boarder like myself. I know that it'll be over all too quickly. I think that's why it's so addicting. You just long for a few more minutes of sliding fast around turns, knowing that how you cut the slope depends on your stance and the way you react with your board. Your path is never completely clear-cut. You're not hooked to a towline or dragged to your destination, but pulled by something you can't see, something running much deeper through you. It whispers to you. It tugs at your soul...at your core...at your very existence. It's the rush. It's the feel of the adrenaline coursing through your veins as the scenery blurs into a mix of variegated colors before you as you fly past. The only thing you really take notice of is your next turn and any obstacles in your path that you need to accommodate for. The rest is just a blur of silence...accented only by your breath and your heartbeat pounding out its' primordial rhythm...or, if you're like me, a fast-paced drum-heavy song that will be added to my soundtrack for this run. I approach my turn, and cut a soon-forgotten groove into the powder with my board. Either another snowboarder or skier will overlap my tracks and make them their own, or the storm leering overhead will fill it in as if it never existed. But, I'll never know which it is. The mountain—in all her majestic beauty and snow-covered glory—will soon forget me. Only I will remember this run. But, I'll be back. I'm always back. Like a moth to the flame, I'm pulled to these trails.

Another turn after a brief straightaway, another song playing in my ears. My dance with the mountain is almost done. I can see the end approaching, and I'm always surprised by how fast it seems to happen. One minute, it feels as if the run go on forever, and the next minute it's over and I feel a pang of emptiness setting in. No matter which trail I choose, or what the weather is doing, the ride always takes my breath away. Up ahead, I can see a small grouping of people waiting in line for the ski-lift. I cruise to a stop and unhook my board from my feet. Picking it up, I begin to trek away from the mountain, but my body has other plans. The next thing I know, I find myself being swooped up into the cradle of a lift-chair again and carried back up the mountainside. I tell myself that this will DEFINITELY be the last run for today, but, somehow I know deep down inside that I'm lying to myself again, and that this may turn into an all-day thing once more.

On my ride up, a passing thought strikes me and I find myself wondering if anyone has ever had to be physically dragged away from the slopes of the mountain because their love affair with it was far too great for them to turn away from on their own? I can just imagine it now...people turning into weird golem-like creatures that cruise the various trails on their boards or skis, hitching rides on the lifts at the end of each ride, and practically taking up residence on the many trails that dart the slopes so that they can be close to their "precious" again. Lost in my thoughts and smiling to myself, I almost don't hear the lift attendant telling me to raise the bar up so I can get off the chair and exit the lift area. Somehow, I'm already at the top again and find myself chuckling at the thought of the golems haunting the trails of this mountain. After checking my bindings once more, I launch myself down a different trail this time and swear I hear someone scream out, “my precious” before the music playing in my ears and the howling winds begin to drown out their words. I hear the yell echoing again, and suddenly realize that it's coming from me. I start laughing uproariously. I guess, some days, it's good to be the golem of the mountain...and today is definitely one of those days. Race you to the bottom.