Powder
by Linda Keyes
It’s an old skier’s joke, “Which would you rather have, hot sex or a powder day?” Real ski lovers know which is harder to come by, and I am a powder girl. I’m also a married, working mother of preschoolers, so frankly both are a rare treat these days. That’s why I put my daughter in ski school at our local resort on Tuesday mornings. I wanted, no I needed, a couple of hours of mid-week skiing with the mountain to myself.
My husband is envious, but his work schedule is less flexible than mine. We fell in love in the Colorado Mountains and learned to backcountry ski together. Before kids, our idea of a romantic weekend was snow camping. We were never cold in our down sleeping bags, zipped together inside our mountaineer’s tent, waiting for dawn and the next perfect powder run. The excitement of high country couloirs and windy ridges fueled our passion for each other. Now however, our typical ski days involve crowded bunny slopes, painful rope tows, and tearful girls with runny noses. Shared powder days are rare. You might say the thrill has gone.
Then one Tuesday I found myself alone on the backside of the mountain. I’d dropped my daughter at her ski lessons. We’d had no new snow since the weekend and I thought I might find a place to make fresh tracks back where the slope angle scares away the masses. I zipped past the barrier with signs marked “Danger! Experts Only!” and “Don’t ski alone!” I figured if I stayed on the ridge and out of the trees, I’d have nothing to worry about.
Standing on the edge of the deserted and scraped-up slope, I gazed across the valley at the untracked backcountry lines and sighed. I heard the soft sound of skis slipping up from behind. Another skier glided past and stopped just beyond me where the rope marked the edge of the ski area boundary. He was too bundled up to make out his face. What I noticed were his skis, skinny old-time touring boards with three-pin bindings and leather boots. Skis of my youth, the kind of gear I had learned to telemark in with my husband. The kind of gear I had before kids and a job and responsibility.
I couldn’t help but remark, “Wow, those are some skinny skis!”
In a low voice he responded, “Wanna ski some powder?”
I was caught off guard.
“Umm. Okay. I dunno.” I paused and his goggles remained trained on my face, “OK, yes! But where?”
He gestured to the other side of the rope. From the top of the piste where we stood all I could see was a steep, windblown drop off with minimal snow cover, almost bare. I must have looked dubious.
“You cross this slope then drop down into those trees. No avalanche danger. There’s an amazing untracked bowl below. From there we swing back around to join the resort. Easy skiing!”
If I leaned out far enough I could just make out a low angle slope of virgin snow scattered with young pines.
Reason took hold. “I can’t. My daughter is in ski school. I have no backcountry gear. I have to get to the front of the mountain before noon”.
“No worries. We’ll be back in 45 minutes. And you will have had the best run of the season. The best!”
I gave a skeptical look, probably lost to him under my helmet, goggles and neck warmer.
“It’ll be soooo fun.” Then in a lower, more conspiratorial tone, “You know you want to.”
His attitude should have put me off, but he was right. I did want to. A soft flutter of snowflakes blew across my face, tickling my cheeks and lips.
“Really 45 minutes? No avalanche danger?”
“Promise!”
He held out his gloved hand to introduce himself. “Ro-bear-toh.” His voice, previously unaccented, rolled over the “R”. For a second I began to feel a little giddy.
We ducked under the line, ignoring placards that threatened fines and loss of lift tickets for crossing the barrier, and began to step our skis across the exposed rocks. A frigid gust of wind stung my nose. What was I thinking? No one knew where I was. No one knew where we were going. I had no beacon, no shovel, no probe. My daughter was expecting me in ski school down below and here I am taking off out-of-bounds with a complete stranger. My husband would kill me (if I didn’t die in an accident or avalanche). And he’d be jealous – jealous of the powder.
Halfway across the scree by now I yelled, “Roberto, I can’t do it. I have to go back.”
”Aw, come on, we’re almost there. It’s gonna be nice!” Then, whispering, turning on the accent “Fresh tracks. Just a quick run. Nobody has to know.”
From where we stood now I could appreciate the full expanse of snow awaiting, shimmering seductively in the sun. Roberto beckoned with his pole. I glanced back over my shoulder but the yellow rope boundary was already out of sight. I pushed my hood off my helmet, leaned forward, and pushed off.
A couple of minutes later we were frolicking through the pine grove, Roberto making large arcs across the hill on his skinny skis while I bounced in tighter, neat turns around the treetops peeking through the snow.
“Yes!” I yelled as flew past my companion.
“Slow down!” He urged, “Savor it. Let’s stay together.”
I paused to let him catch me. Below us an untouched valley of pure white snow lay waiting, surrounded by rocky peaks jutting up into the cloudless sky.
“Just wait ‘til you see what comes next,” he said.
Gaining speed now we took a long traverse, cresting a small rise at the top of a deep and inviting bowl, the powder light and glittery in the cold air.
“You go first,” he insisted.
I took a deep breath, dropped into the fluffy abyss and floated into another world. I was young again. Husband, children, and job disappeared in one great crystalline whoosh. The turns were effortless. I floated across the slope, sparkles of snow flying up and around me. I coasted back and forth, feeling only joy, my knees pumping up and down in perfect rhythm with the mountain and the sky.
Too quickly it was over, leaving the two of us panting from the exertion and exhilaration at the edge of the wood leading back the resort. I gazed back at the undulating s-curves carved in the bowl above us. My face was flushed and my heart still racing when Roberto said, “Ooh, that was good!”
Suddenly I felt uncomfortable. Embarrassed even. What would I tell my husband? Should I tell my husband? Is sharing the ecstasy of fresh powder with someone else cheating? I slipped back under the cord marking the ski area boundary and avoided eye contact with Roberto. On the return trail we didn’t speak, and the lift ride to the front side was awkward. As we waved good-by however, I felt a sudden tinge of disappointment. Would I ever have another powder run like that again?
That night after the kids were tucked in and the skis hung back up in the garage, I confessed to my husband. He would have read it on my face anyway. I couldn’t stop smiling for the rest of the week. I skied every Tuesday until the end of the season, but I never saw Roberto and his skinny skis again. My husband got wise however. Instead of date nights, he takes me into the backcountry, for our own tryst in the mountains, re-igniting our passion for each other with the rare and exquisite pleasure of powder snow.
Linda Keyes is a telemark skier and writer in Boulder, Colorado. She supports her snow and literary habits by working night shifts in the ER. In 2014, she won the American College of Emergency Physicians Medical Humanities writing award.