Words to the Wind
Memories like rain they keep falling down The leaves they burn like fire and touch the ground And timeless age decays To form our yesterdays Then came the wind Words to the wind Words to the wind
Jon and Dawn Bowers
The Run to Vail
Tom Dillon stepped off the Greyhound out of Steamboat and into Vail. He buttoned his black preacher coat against the stark evening cold. The thirteen thousand foot Gore Range and the spires of the Grand Traverse glowed fiery orange in the last light of the alpenglow. The turquoise tinged sky faded into darkness. Tugging at his Stetson and slipping into his backpack, he walked across the Vail Transportation Center and down the concrete stairs. The snow crisp, cold, crunched beneath his worn hiking boots. A thick blanket of it nestled on the roof of the Covered Bridge. It was the oldest structure in Vail Village. The crystals sparkled against the wooden shakes, illuminated by the lights of the Alpine Village. The noise of the tourists talking was replaced by the dull thud of his boots on the wooden planks. The rushing and bubbling of Gore Creek filled the evening air. Halfway across the bridge, Tom stopped and turned toward the rushing water. The flowing water tugged strongly at his heart. Silently, he stood and listened. He thought of his friend. He had always expected his greatest defeat would have come from the mountains. It had surprised him, coming this way. Sara had taken him to heights he had thought were impossible. He was just beginning to realize how great his loss really was.
Tom Dillon was finely tired. He was tired of the poverty, the loneliness, tired of the towns, ski towns, fed up with the hustlers. He was tired of ski town dreamers and ski town schemers.
The sound of footfalls across the planks of the Covered Bridge captured his attention. A young couple arm and arm walked toward him. Her hair hung loosely from beneath her white ski hat. It was flaming red, reminding him of Sara. Why? Why did he put on an act to impress her? Fool her by being something other than who he was. Why had he been compelled to drive this warm wonderful woman from his life?
He walked down the narrow noisy Bridge Street and toward the middle of the Village. In the lit window of a local shop, he stopped to look at a pair of expensive hand-tooled riding boots that sat among the cut woolen sweaters. Sara’s voice drifted through the evening air.
“You may know everything there is to know about mountains, Thomas Dillon. When it comes to women, you’re such a big jerk! Every time the least little thing happens in your life, you run away to another mountain. When are you going to realize that you are just running away from yourself? You’ve got to quit drinking, you’ve got to stand for something in life, and you can’t just drift!”
Tom flipped up his collar to the cold and dampness and continued on toward Gold Peak and his friend’s townhome. Tom was good at walking away, a walk away Joe. He stood quietly in front of the door. It was beginning to snow and it was late. He had nowhere else to go and no one else to see. He reached up and grasped the large brass ring around the lion’s head that rested against the plate, bringing it down hard three times, he listened. The sound of footsteps came to him from behind the door. It opened slightly.
“Who is it?” a soft feminine voice asked.
“Dawna, it’s me, Tom.”
“Tom, Tom, come in!”
The door opened widely and a slim graceful woman appeared. She had long blonde hair that spiraled into ringlets to her shoulders. She grasped him firmly by the hand and led him through the doorway.
“How have you been? Where have you been? What exactly have you been up to? I want to know everything, let me wake John.” She disappeared around the corner.
Tom collapsed into a chair. A large black box sat on an end table between a sofa and a chair. A purple neon light rose out of it, it soothed him. A crystal heart, along with a pyramid spire sat beside the light. It refracted through the crystal creating an eerie array of colors dancing on the wall. Across the room above a tan stone fireplace sat a hand hewn oak mantle. On the left of the mantle, a red and yellow clay pot held a large leafy elephant plant. A spider plant dangled over the edge to the right. A large wooden framed picture in the center caught Tom’s attention. He stood slowly, stretched, and walked to the picture. A blue suited skier was crouching extremely low, before a steep vertical among some jagged rocks. He examined it closely.
“First Nordic Ski Descent, Grand Teton, Rick Wyatt. June 10, 1982.”
Tom smiled to himself, leave it to John. John was the diehard of the crowd. He and Dawna were the last of the holdouts among their friends. John had been on the circuit longer than Tom. He had been to Big Sky and Bridger Bowl in Montana. John had even wintered in Alta, Utah. He had taken Tom to Honeycomb Canyon at Solitude and the Merry Chutes on Mount Millicent at Brighton in Big Cottonwood Canyon last year.
“Tom, how the hell are you? You look great. You must be skiing a lot.”
“Every day John, every day. I just got in from Steamboat, a friend procured some day passes to ski the trees.”
Tom faced his friend. John had a thick red beard, with a long light red and blond mustache. His hairline had receded since Tom had seen him last, leaving a tanned forehead and tell tale raccoon tanned eyes. John stood several inches taller than Tom.
“I’m glad to hear you're skiing everyday.”
“Yeah I wrangled a pass in exchange for some work in the Lodge at A-Basin, best ski season yet. I’m well over a hundred days this year.”
“How have you really been?” Dawna asked.
Tom shifted uncomfortably. “Things aren’t going well right now,” he stammered.
“What’s up?”
“I screwed up with Sara, you know me Dawna, every time things are going well. I seem to find a way to mess up badly.”
“Are you drinking Tom?” Dawna looked concerned.
“I acted foolishly, I-I wrote some terrible things to her.”
“How bad?”
“I can’t even remember John, I guess pretty bad,” Tom looked at the floor.
“Don’t worry a bit Tom, we'll fix you up with a ski bunny from Vail,” John said.
“That’s just the thing John; We were really getting close. I’ve never felt this way before.”
“’Have you tried telling her that Tom? Maybe she feels the same way about you? Dawna asked.
“I remember John when we were first going out. He would go out of his way to do goofy things. I finally told him to grow up!”
“It wasn’t like that, Dawna. I lost it. I wrote some dark things. There is nothing I can do to change things. I can’t undo what I’ve done.”
“Maybe you can change the way you do things, Tom,” John said.
“What do you mean, John?”
“Tell you what Tom, I can get a four days pass. You can ski Vail and Beaver Creek. I’ll take you in the back bowls. It will get your energy flowing in the right direction. There’s nothing wrong with you that a few days skiing the deep won’t cure. Dawna enjoys telemark skiing, she’ll take you to Chicago Ridge at Ski Cooper, free your heel, free your mind,” he laughed loudly.
“Ok, John, I’ll do it,” Tom said.
“One more thing Tom, They have A.A. Meetings at the Vail Chapel, and also at the Beaver Creek Chapel. I understand Betty Ford has a lot to do with the program at the chapel there. Dawna and I will go there with you. We think you need to talk to someone.”
“I don’t know John.”
“No hassle, the meetings are at noon. We’ll ski down at lunch and just pop in. No big deal. Tom it seems to me that every time you get your life in order, I mean when things are really going good, you get in big trouble and alcohol is usually involved.”
“I know I would do anything not to have these problems.”
“Sounds like a first step to me, it’s like committing to the mountain, Tom, and the first turn in a steep, gnarly chute is always the hardest. You know the rest of the saying.”
“I know, I know, point em downhill and stand on them.”
They all laughed heartily.
I Can Still Make Cheyenne, George Strait