For Gordon Grey
It Doesn't Have to be that way
"The Love you give comes back to you.
You can never throw it away."
Live Free and Ski
(Yes Lyn, There Really Is A Snow God)
Gordon Grey
“Psst,” piercing green eyes peering from under the brim of the tattered black cowboy hat. A raccoon’s tail dangling from a rawhide beaded string. The red bandanna tied loosely around his neck, his face showing the stubble of a beard. Both of his arms extended from beneath the sleeves of the crumpled white long rider coat. It was buttoned at the third and only big black button.
“I’m a spirit guide,” he blurted out. “Are you one?” he asked intensely.
“I, I don’t know,” I replied, confused. “I’m a skier, a poet and writer.”
“Poets are spirit guides,” his smile reflecting the warm Colorado sunshine.
A cradle rocking by the hand of its mother, the red gondola swayed gently from the cable, propelled by the mountain breezes. Two sets of inhabitants facing one another. One set ascending toward Mid-Vail. The other being drawn from the clock tower of the gondola shed at Lionshead. The clock read ten fifteen.
Turning, he slowly walked bowlegged, a few short steps. His red and white laced hiking boots, protruded from beneath his patched jeans. They squeaked across the newly shoveled square. Bending over an army surplus knapsack, he gently extracted a multi-colored horse blanket, along with a weathered sitar. It left a worn saddle.
“Why do you carry a saddle?” I questioned, as he walked toward me.
I removed my gloves. Casually, I stuffed them into the frayed leather trimmed pockets of my black preacher coat.
“My grey mare she, she went and died on me,” he shook his head slowly. “I live in an abandoned mine shack. It’s in the mountains outside of Minturn,” his arm pointed west.
Raising his head, he focused his gaze toward the Vail Mountain Summit. The silence between us was interrupted by the banter of the sightseers.
Feliz Navidad, I thought bitterly for having arrived too late for the Vail employment draw. Dashing my ski bum’s dream, it left me in dire straits. I was accustomed to it, having been on the circuit for years.
“I went to Steamboat to visit an old friend. He lives in a tepee outside of town.”
I knew he looked familiar. He had appeared eerily silhouetted by a street lamp in a snowstorm, standing on the corner. I had just arrived in Steamboat on the last Greyhound from Vail. There was already eight inches of fresh powder down. Hoping for a foot and a half of new, the legendary stand of aspens had been beckoning me. A friend, who worked the puma lift at top, had procured a free pass.
“Tomorrow, I’m getting another horse. There’s only enough money to buy it. I need a place to stay this evening,” he spread the horse blanket out. Sitting down and crossing his legs, he placed the sitar on his lap.
“I’m Daniel,” he smiled and began playing.
“Where are you headed poet man?” his facial muscles were twitching with the chords.
The notes of Ravi Shankar, from the music for the starving people of Bangladesh, began filling the Village Square.
A dangerously hanging snow cornice, the ivory crystals coated the roofs of the surrounding lodges and stores. There were crews of men shoveling, precariously balanced by guide ropes. They were working feverishly against the warming sun’s rays. The sound of it striking the earth, a drum beat to the rhythm of Daniel’s music. They were cajoling one another in their effort to rid the roofs of their weight.
“I’m looking for day labor,” I pushed my Stetson toward the back of my head. I pulled off my green knapsack and laid it on the ground. It made a perfect cushion between my jeans and the cold courtyard.
“I thought I could help clean the roofs. I’m living with my ski patrolman friend, Touloose. He has a trailer in the Vail employee park, Tin City. I overslept and spaced out the shuttle from Edwards. It woulda been enough money to ski Beaver Creek,” I struck out menacingly at a chunk of snow.
“What kind of poetry do you write?” His picking gathered momentum.
“Mostly about mountains and some powder snow poetry,” I replied.
“Have you published a manuscript yet?” his eyes softly questioned.
“Not yet,” my voice cracked with embarrassment. “For many years, I just stopped writing; I said there wasn’t any money in it.”
“You should never stop writing,” he ceased playing. Shaking his finger, he admonished. “Writing like making music is a gift from God, make money at it if you can, but you should give your gift freely, without attachments.”
“I was young and selfish, I wanted the whole world,” I looked away from his direct glare.
My eye caught the motion of a skier. He was snaking his way through the troughs of the moguls in the snowfield. Moguls are sleeping serpents. Avoid the head of the serpent and you can’t be smitten. I had spent a lifetime upon the mountains of America, desperately avoiding the ugly reality of the serpent’s head. I had just prolonged my inevitable confrontation.
“It’s never too late to change you know,” he smiled and resumed his picking.
“I know Daniel, I’ve realized I love mountains and I love children. I’m going to unite the two with my gift.”
“Fancy that poet man,” he laughed loudly.
The crowd had increased, their ski outfits reflected the colors of the rainbow. They stood shoulder to shoulder with their heads bobbing and weaving to get a better view. I felt like a caged lion in a circus, I wanted to roar.
“I just get so lost in the cities, Daniel,” I raised my arms in despair.
“I’ll tell you what poet man,” his body swayed rhythmically. “Every full moon, I’ll play my sitar to the stars. If you become confused, just look to the mountains. You can see my light and hear my music. Maybe it will help you to fulfill your promise to children. Now, why don’t you take off our Stetson, turn it upside down and toss it out in front of us,” he motioned to the crowd.
The sitar music began growing in strength with his renewed spirit. It’s mystical quality attracted the attention of more tourists with a faint trace of a smile, a slight glimmer in the eyes of some, as they recognized the music.
“How about reciting your poetry for these people,” Daniel’s eyes looked toward the crowd.
The chords of his sitar allowed my poems to flow freely. I recited all I could remember the words too. Exhausting my limited collection, I sat back to enjoy the music. To my surprise, the crowd warmly applauded. Grinning sheepishly, I nodded. The intense mountain sunshine was warming my upturned face.
Finishing his music, Daniel received a rousing round of applause. The people were reaching deep into their pockets, and tossing coins and bills into my hat.
“There aren’t many like them left,” I overheard a voice say.
Daniel had risen and was in conversation with several people milling about.
“Hey poetry man, count the cash,” he motioned to me. His hands were in constant motion, his feet danced back and forth. I counted the money.
“How much profit is there?”
“Eighty-seven fifty,” I handed him the cash. I was astonished at the amount.
“What’s the price of a lift ticket to Beaver Creek?”
“A full day is forty dollars,” I shifted uneasily.
He counted out a large pile of bills.
“Here’s sixty dollars, buy breakfast before you ski,” he patted my shoulder. “These people are musicians,” motioning to the group. “I can stay with them, for sitar lessons, they are even going to take me to get my horse,” he clapped his hands and pranced like a child.
He bent down and picked up his blanket and shook the snow from it.
“Grab the end of this will ya?” he asked.
Taking the corners, I began folding the blanket.
“I-I can’t accept this, Daniel,” I started to protest.
“Nonsense,” he waved his arm to silence me.
Turning, he scooped up his possessions and started walking away with his new companions. I was left with money in hand, standing in awe. After several strides, he stopped, spinning on his heels, he turned to face me with his knapsack, bedroll, and saddle in one hand, and his Sitar clutched in the other. The excess string bouncing from the tuning pegs his entire face lit up in a broad grin.
“Live free and ski in poetry,” he chortled, his entire body convulsing with his laughter. Wheeling about he leapt into the flow of people toward Lionshead.
We Don't Need Another Hero, Tina Turner (Thunderdome)
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