Nothing to see but white. Yeah, the horizon gone and only your sense of balance remains, with little to benchmark even that. And then, as if catapulted, you thrust up out of the depth to the top of the mogul, quickly pick your next move, and back into the man eating crevasse. Back bowl skiing is a rush for young legs and old souls.
He was with his friend now gone. His friend had only learned to ski in recent years, having popped his youth in desert climes, but he was more than adequate, and overly aggressive. He had some style and grace, but learned the tenacity of deep powder mogul skiing from his downhill companion.
From the muffled depths of the kettle to the scream of the crest, and back in, this toll cost. His energy gone, yet his enthusiasm was running on mojo and ego, as he prepared for another lift up the mountain near day’s end. He was wobbly but he knew not to quit, often making poor decisions based on some hidden drive mechanism in his stunted brain. Then his wiser friend suggested we stop right then and there and return to the cabin and meet up with the other pendejoes, whom had stopped awhile back, when the mind was still operating.
“One more run,” he suggested. “That will be the run that breaks your leg,” his friend replied. After a long pause he capitulated and they headed back for a night of exuberance, laughter, and eventually, sleep. And it was during that sleep that his dream identified the strange set of circumstances that were to result from that next run, had he took it and disregarded his friends advice. It was in that dream he strangely saw his own death. Strange indeed.
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