As I stood at my locker the other day after skiing, a fellow ski patroller said to me, “So I hear you’ve been skiing powder?” He paused while I nodded. Before I could continue he said, “I don’t want to hear about it.”
I smiled and nodded. “Okay.” I turned back towards my locker, switched off my avalanche beacon and stored it next to my radio.
“I mean,” he said. “I know where you’ve been.”
I shifted around. “I thought you didn’t want to hear about it.”
He smiled and admitted that he kind of did want to know about skiing in Japan, and had heard that I’d recently been to Big Sky.
“I drove up to Cypress yesterday for a book signing and got back at midnight,” I told him, unclipping my helmet. “I didn’t even bring my skis.” I hung my head a little hoping to invoke a little pity. “I had to drink one of those 5 Hour Energy things I picked up at a gas station just to stay awake.”
“But you were in Japan.” He said flatly.
“And?” He smirked. It was killing him.
“And it was awesome.”
“I thought so.” Satisfied, he turned away.
Hiding your joy is funny business. Sometimes it seems the right thing to do. Whenever I tell another patroller about a recent trip, I emphasize the travel time and the pain-in-the-neck parts of it. I remind them that John and I actually flew for two days in order to ski for two days in Japan. Most people wouldn’t do that. It’s not all face shots and glory, I say.
But it was awesome? They want to know. And I tell them, yes, it was awesome. Some people don’t want the details; they just want to keep the flame burning on their own desire.
People wonder if writing a book is that way. I’m hesitant to say that yes, sharing my story is incredibly validating. I rarely mention that becoming an author has always been on my list of best-case-scenarios. That it is something I’ve dreamed about, imagining my book out there in the world. Instead, I tell them that it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. It’s hard to keep putting yourself out there (which is true), waving your book in the air like an idiot, hoping someone will buy a copy.
I tell people that it’s a heck of a lot easier to sell lift tickets than books. People feel guilty about books they don’t read. To buy a book and let it sit unread on the shelf brings some people great angst. I half joke and tell them they don’t have to read it, they just have to buy it. I talk about remainders until I notice their eyes glass over.
Yesterday I skied powder at Crystal. It was a surprising day–one where the “Real Feel”™ of the 3 inches of reported new snow was more like 10 inches. I hiked the King and found untouched snow in Silver Basin. After my first turn in, I realized I wasn’t smiling. I was thinking about how much time I had before I needed to be somewhere else.
Someone was skiing the chute to my left, and I caught glimpses of his blue jacket and silver helmet. The sun poked through the clouds and glistened on the trees to my right. I could hear only the wind and the soft beating of my heart. My blood softened a little, and I let myself melt a little into my surroundings.
I pushed on. This time I smiled big, letting the cold air freeze my teeth. I made wide arcs across the chute, certain the rocky ribs were covered in snow, and picked up speed. At the bottom another skier waited in the trees and I swooped past him, smiling and breathing loudly, taking large gulps of the snowy air.
As I skated out the long cat track, I kept on smiling. I noticed the way my legs pushed and my triceps worked and took joy in the movement of my body. I reminded myself that someday I would no longer be able to do this. Our best moments, like all moments, are temporary.
It’s no good trying to hide your joy. Life changes in an instant. This moment right here might be your last chance for joy. I say revel in it.
What do you say?
- Where the Snow Lives: Niseko Japan (kimkircher.com)
- Book Signings, Presentations and Shameless Opportunities to Ski Across the West (kimkircher.com)
- Spontaneity Rules (kimkircher.com)