I do this for myself because I am my own fatherland and my handkerchief is my flag. Reinhold Messner
The ski year was winding to a close. The last of the winter storms had long ago fallen, and the snow base was beginning to grow sparse and thin. Spring is a special time in the Rocky Mountains. Everyone looks forward to stripping off their heavy Parkas’ in exchange for shorts and tee shirts, the shapes of women finally appearing as women, underneath the bulky clothing.
Arapahoe Basin was the last in Colorado to close for the season. Her high altitude assured her of a deep base. The basin held the powder, and packed powder until well into the mud season. She could be skied, long after other areas, except maybe her sister, Loveland Basin, were closed. The summit towered into the thin crispness of the deep blues sky. The ivory snow melting, trickling through the cracks and crevasses, turned into raging streams everywhere, rushing down her steep craggy, creviced sides.
The chairs hung empty desolate and silent swaying in the early morning breeze. The Beaver’s munched on the blossoming bulbs and spring mushrooms, while the Ermine and Ptarmigan turned their spring blending brown, frolicked and foraged on the hatching insects among the buttercups and daisies. It was the only sign that life existed, anywhere else in the world, outside of the teeming undergrowth.
Tom and Joe were standing in the parking lot in front of the Lodge gazing fondly at the high peaks. The billowy cumulus clouds softly sliding by, where slit by the earthen spires. Every person’s thoughts are inherently their own, but at certain times the world comes together to be as one. Humanity bridges the gaps; it is why society goes to the mountains. Here all are humble equals.
“So this is it,” Joe stretched out his arms. He rested his hand on the young man’s shoulder. He was hoping it wasn’t the last time they would be together.
“Every season it’s the same. The end comes much, much too soon. You just begin to know someone, and then they're gone,” Tom lamented.
Tom grabbed his Tough Traveler backpack and swung it up onto his broad shoulders. Joe reached across to shake his hand, he pulled his friend tight to him, and gave him a strong fatherly hug.
“Thank you for everything son, “ his voice cracked, as he whispered.
“Aw, come on Joe,” Tom said. “This isn’t the end, it’s a new beginning, and new beginnings are great.”
Joe stepped backwards and nodded a smile, not trusting himself, to speak. He didn’t hide or express emotions well. He opened the car door, and motioned for a last chance ride. Tom shook his head and cinched the black straps of his pack tighter. They hung long and loose, and gently flapped in the mountain breeze.
“When I was a small boy, Snowshoe would haul me up on his knee and whisper in my ear. Reach, Tom, reach as high as you can for your dreams. There’s no failure for reaching for an obscure dream and commin up short. You see my boy, the greatest failure in this life is never reaching for the dream at all,” Tom reflected. “You weren’t afraid to go for it, Joe. Maybe, just maybe, someday I’ll come to your ranch, wherever it may be. I don’t think I will ever be able to forget you and this damn mountain. I’ll think of you when the times are tough and it seems like the whole world has gone crazy. If it ever feels like there is no hope, I’ll remember your fight with the Senator, even though it isn’t over, and I’ll try a little harder, reach higher.”
The two were silent, dwarfed between being and nothingness, the quiet silence, the learned silence, the silence of mountains and men. Joe slid into the Mercedes and started the engine. He drove out of the parking lot and down the highway, toward Keystone and the Dillon Reservoir. He didn’t look back at Tom.
“That young man is a carbon copy of his Uncle Snowshoe. He’ll live to be a Legend in his Time.”
Tom stood alone. He was a lone wolf again. A solitary sentinel stationed at the summit of North America. The sun’s rays bathed his body with warmth. The brilliant intense light reflected off of the wet white swaths of snow among the lush green meadows. It awakened all of his nerve endings, flooding, filling his body with and eerie consciousness.
A loud snap followed suddenly by a crack and empty clanging, startled him. Tom spun to face the Lodge and quickly looked at where the sound had come from. The golden eagle grotesquely glared at him, a mute gargoyle atop a naked pole. Tom turned away. He was chilled by the empty resonance of the banging. The metal clasps hung from the cable, kissing the cold steel pole and was chilled by the hollow barren sound. Involuntarily, he shivered, against the loneliness. Tom peered along the line of blue lift towers, dotting the mountainside, like a caterpillar, crawling up to the summit. His gaze drifted across Lenawee Mountain and the magnificent East Wall that he had traversed in the fog and snow to get his first shots in with the Patrol. He squinted against the brightness. Trying to visualize the wooden miner's top shack perched precariously, guarding Montezuma Bowl on the backside. He held fast to the image until it burned brightly in his heart and mind and would hold Arapahoe Basin in his soul forever, her empty trails, and slopes, the waiting arms of an expectant lover.
Man passes across the face of the Earth, leaving scars of desecration. Nature gives it all away. After man’s reign is through, her divine steeples will stand silently, breathlessly catching passing cumulus clouds. There will be no pain, there will be no sorrow, there will be no glory, no answers. There will only be God’s Universe in its splendor. Tom had come around full circle, almost.
“Begin at the beginning, end at the end, it’s never over until it’s over.” Snowshoe was a wise old man his wisdom lived on, in Tom. There was one more loose end that had to be tied.
Tom kicked at a rock with his hiking boots. It skipped across the puddles. He splashed through the wet slush and mud of the parking lot. Life long ties had been meld as solid as the earthen rock, itself. He would always make a pilgrimage home, vowing in his heart, to bring a new friend, each time he returned to the Lady in Waiting.
He started down Route-Six for his long walk into town, said good-bye to the Professor, guarding the switch- backs up to the Continental Divide. The Aspens, green with buds. The white and purple blooming Columbine, offset the vibrant hues of the Indian Paintbrush. The forest of Montezuma, alive with its burgeoning life. Tom looked to the summit for one last time. High above the giant bowl, a Golden Eagle cried shrilly, as it raced across the azure sky. Tom’s step lightened, his chest filled with serenity. The aroma of the sage and the pines permeated the thin air. The runoff cascading down the mountainside into the peaceful gentle Valley of the Blue.
The Weight / Featuring Ringo Star and Robbie Robertson/ Playing For Change/ Song Around The World
