In the Trees

In the Trees

Brian Webb, January 2022

Having failed at mending fences with Joann, I decide I’ll stretch the President’s Day weekend by taking Friday off. Just a short getaway for some rest and relaxation. “No booze, and no weed,” I tell myself dead-seriously in the mirror as I’m shaving. And I mean it this time. Just clean fresh air, a little skiing, and some healthy self-inventory. It feels like the best thing I’ve done for myself in too long. I pack a light bag and throw it in the car with my gear, then strap my skis to the roof rack and hit the road.

Heading north out of Albany, I put on some Coltrane. The music and the scenery passing by settle my mind. ‘A Love Supreme’ puts me in a meditative mood. As the buildings thin out and the distances between exits expand, I recall the unfortunate night earlier that week that inspired my decision to take this little retreat. Following a fight with Joann over missing most of Sophie’s third birthday party, I had been out late at my usual watering hole.

“She’s kicking me out again,” I had said, through the fog of five (or was it six?) Jack and Cokes.

“She what?” Bernie asked.

I wasn’t sure if it was the drinks or just a shitty cell signal, but I repeated myself slowly, nearly yelling as I unlocked the car. “She’s kicking me out again!” Okay. That time I definitely noticed a slur in my voice.

“What did you do now, Stan?” My brother’s frustration came through the phone loud and clear. But before I could answer he said, “Hey – is that your car dinging? Where the hell are you?”  

I told him. He made me promise to turn the car off and wait there. A while later his knocking on the window woke me up. He took me to his place for the night. It wasn’t the first time. Or the second. It probably wouldn’t be the last. I’m pretty sure I don’t deserve him. Or anybody else in my life who puts up with me.

The next morning, I woke to hear his wife and kids going out the door to work and school. When I was sure they had left, I shuffled out to the kitchen.  Bernie was standing at the counter checking his phone and having some coffee. He silently pushed a cup my way, then slid some scrambled eggs onto a plate and dropped a slice of bread in the toaster.

“Have a seat, Stan,” he said. He sounded tired. “So - what are you going to do?”

“About what?” I asked, smothering the eggs with ketchup.

“About yourself!” He glared at me as I stuck a forkful of eggs into my mouth. I grunted and shrugged. “You’re a mess, man! You’ve got a really good life, but you’re taking everything and everyone in it for granted. By some miracle, Joann still tolerates you. Sophie still thinks you’re a superhero. I’m your brother, so I don’t have much of a choice. But sooner or later, people will get worn out, Stan. Don’t you get it?” 

“You’re right. I know.” 

“Listen, I’m already late for work. You’ll have to call an Uber to get back to your car. Please lock up when you leave.” Shaking his head, he picked up his keys, slung his laptop bag over his shoulder and headed for the door.

“Hey,” I say. He stopped with the door half open and looked back at me, eyebrows raised. “Thanks for rescuing me last night. I’m sorry I’m such a pain in the ass. I’ll figure this out. I promise.”

“I want to believe you, Stan. I really do. But ‘boy-wolf’, you know?” I nodded. “Okay. Take care.” He stepped outside and the door closed behind him.

~

As I pass Exit 30 for the Adirondacks High Peaks region, I imagine a legal pad with a line drawn down the center of the page. In my mind I use one of the columns to list parts of my life that are trending in the right direction and the other for things that aren’t going so well. In the end, it’s disappointing, if not surprising, that the “right direction” column is so much shorter.

I’m a financial advisor and a workaholic. Sixty-hour work weeks, including frequent nights and weekends, are my norm. I work hard and play hard. I know it’s not a very balanced lifestyle, but my firm values me. At thirty-five I’m on track to be their youngest named partner ever. I tell myself that someday it will all pay off and then I’ll be able to relax and enjoy the fruits of my labor. Someday.

Joann and I have been together five years.  We had a little surprise three years ago, and since our daughter Sophie came along, we’ve been trying to make our threesome work as a family. I guess I could try harder. We haven’t come to a meeting of the minds on the subject of marriage yet. I know they deserve more of me, but so far, I seem to be having trouble being everything they need.  

~

A few hours later, my tires crackle and crunch to a stop in the snowy parking lot of the Mont Neige ski area. I get out and stretch as I take in the mountain towering above me. Through the fog of my exhaled breath, I watch the chair lift rising slowly toward the summit. Tiny figures slide gracefully through open areas and criss-cross narrower trails through wooded sections of the hill.  The ski report says there’s a thirty-six inch packed base topped with a foot of groomed powder, with ten to twelve fresh inches expected in the next twenty-four hours.

I put my boots on, take my skis from the roof carrier and clip in, then traverse over to the ticket shack where I ask for a three-day lift tag. After swiping my credit card, the ticket agent slides my pass across the counter along with another form.  

“Read and sign this, please.”

“What is it?”

“It’s an information and disclaimer form for skiing in the Arbor Grove section.”

I’m not sure exactly what he’s talking about, so I skim through the size 8 font legal-beagle language on the form.  Apparently, there’s an area of the mountain where you can ski through ungroomed snow between trees. I’ve heard about this. They want you to sign that you knew it was dangerous before you tried it and it also releases them from any liability or medical expenses if you get yourself messed up in there. I sign the form, hand it back, and head over to the chair lift.

I have a chair to myself on the way up the mountain. I check out the expanding vista on my way upslope. My feet feel heavy as my skis dangle and swing above the heads of descending skiers below. At the top, I get my skis under me and stand, pushing off against the chair with the back of my legs. I glide smoothly out of the way of other skiers offloading behind me and slip my pole straps over my gloves as I stop in front of the trail map. 

I choose a couple of intermediate trails first, just to get my legs back after a couple of years off. The surface conditions are perfect. After a couple of warm-up runs, I’m feeling confident and decide to try one of the black diamond trails. 

That goes fairly well, until my tendency toward over-confidence gets the best of me and I get cute taking on a run of moguls. A split-second loss of concentration, and my downhill ski drifts a little. The inside edge catches in some unpacked powder and instantly my legs are yanked apart. I take an awkward tumble, both skis pop out of their bindings, and I end up flat on my back looking up at the sky. A couple of skiers deftly adjust course to avoid hitting me while I meekly take mental inventory of my arms, legs, and head. 

Other than the pain of embarrassment and a little tenderness inside my right thigh, I’m good. I sit up and get my boots back into my bindings as skiers swoosh by and rubberneck at my humiliation. When I get vertical once again, I slowly snowplow at first. Three or four leisurely stem christianas later, I feel ready to go again, and manage to finish the run cleanly. 

As the morning progresses, I gain confidence, even impressing myself with a decent run of one of the double diamond trails. Snow starts to fall, slowly at first, then picks up in intensity closer to noon. The scene is magical, particularly the rides up the chairlift between runs. Visibility continues to deteriorate and the earlier views of the surrounding topography dissolve into the obscurity of the storm.  The outside world and all of its cares seem to fade away and Mont Neige, despite its immensity, suddenly feels small, isolated, a sheltered place apart, as if under the magical spell of some powerful frost wizard.  

Sometime around one o’clock, I’m feeling hungry and decide to take a break for lunch. At the bottom of the hill, I let my skis run toward the lodge, slowing down and then stopping in front of the huge glass window which dominates the slope-facing wall of the. I step out of my bindings, stow my skis in the rack outside, and clunk into the villa. 

On my way to the restaurant, I pass the entrance to the bar and hesitate for a moment. The guests inside are all drinking and laughing together. I imagine how fun it would be to sit down, order a single malt scotch or a hot buttered rum and make some new friends. But I remember my self-imposed order: “No booze.” Proud of myself, I put my temptation behind me and continue toward the lunchroom. I have a burger, fries, and a soda, then visit the restroom before heading back to the slopes.

After washing and drying my hands, I head out of the restroom and reach into my pocket for my gloves. In the bottom of my right pocket, my fingertips touch something under the glove. My senses discern what my fingers already know, and when I open my hand, a neatly rolled joint confirms my hunch. 

I quickly return the joint to my pocket and cast my memory back to the last time I had worn the jacket.  It comes to mind that it was two years ago at West Mountain. A friend and I had spent the weekend skiing and partying together. He always had the best weed, purchased with a semi-legal medical card from a dispensary in Massachusetts. He had rolled a joint and given it to me before we parted ways. I must have stashed it in the jacket and forgotten about it.  

Of course, my inner party animal starts doing backflips, but then I am reminded again of my self-admonition in the mirror: “And no weed!” So, I stiffen my resolve and throw the joint in to the first trash can I pass on my way back to the entrance.

Outside I get my helmet, gloves, and skis back on and head for the chair lift. At the top of the mountain, I slide off the lift and take a closer look at the trail map for my next run. I notice an area on the western edge of the map labelled “Arbor Grove - Trees*”. I look down next to the bottom of the map, where an asterisk is followed by the words: “WARNING: Arbor Grove is an ungroomed area intended for use by only the most experienced skiers.  Skiers will encounter deep ungroomed powder and large trees. Minimal patrol coverage. USE AT YOUR OWN RISK.”   

Somewhere inside, I hear my adolescent self screaming, “Yes, please!” I have never skied through trees before, but I have watched some Youtube videos about it and talked with friends who had.  I seem to recall that you’re discouraged from doing it alone, but I decided I’d be okay if I took it slow.

I head straight across the top of the mountain through the blinding snow. The wind had picked up out of the northeast and was pasting fresh snow onto the trunks of trees and the surfaces of all of the signs. Within a few minutes, I have passed what I believe to be the last groomed trail and I’m looking hard for any clue as to where the Arbor Grove section begins. I finally spot a rectangular board mounted on a post, completely obscured by a coating of heavy snow. I slide over to it, reach up, and wipe it off. There it is. “Arbor Grove”. The sign also bears the words: “Tips Up!” and “Helmets Required – Ski at your own Risk”.

I look downhill from where I’ve paused. It just looks like woods as far as the limited visibility allows me to see. I take a deep breath, adjust my goggles, and push off – tips up, of course. This is definitely a very different experience than skiing the impeccably groomed trails of the main area. The powder immediately swallows my skis and boots up above my knees. I find myself leaning back, then rocking forward, glancing down at my ski tips, then up at what lies ahead, then back down at my skis. Everything is different in here. I start slowly, feeling my way to figure out what works best. 

I wind my way around and through the trees, but it doesn’t feel smooth or natural. Turning is the biggest difference. It feels awkward, like I’m always either going too fast or too slow. I need more control, better balance.  I find myself creeping along, then feeling more comfortable and picking up speed, then scaring the hell out of myself almost smashing into a tree and falling down and nearly disappearing in the deep powder. 

After what feels like an eternity of making my way downhill in this terrifying way, I stop to rest and try to get my bearings. The snow is falling so hard now I can’t see a hundred yards in any direction. The sounds of the ski area are completely gone.  Even the trees, which were at least moderately tidy when I first started have now degenerated into ordinary winter woods with heavy underbrush, downed dead trees, and plenty of surprises waiting beneath the snow for my skis run to into them and send me tumbling. 

I look at my watch. Almost three o’clock. It’s been a little over an hour since I began this miserable adventure. I haven’t seen a single person since I started. I’m not even sure whether I’m still on resort property or not.  Clearly, this was a bad idea. I’m growing increasingly anxious about what might happen out here. 

Suddenly, I’m overwhelmed by the need to get moving. It takes over every other instinct and emotion I’m feeling. I’m lost in the woods in the middle of a blizzard late on a February afternoon. I can’t afford to take a chance on having to stay the night out here without the proper gear. The only direction I am absolutely sure about is downhill, so I point my skis that way and push off hard.

I make good progress for a few minutes, trying hard to moderate speed with safety. I’m getting better at this powder skiing. I’m dodging trees and controlling my body to maximize momentum. My improvements build confidence, which in turn inspires me to push the limits of my admittedly limited skill set. 

Soon I am moving along at surprising speed, when some hidden obstacle under the snow catches my left ski and stops it instantly. At the same time, my right ski and the rest of my body continue moving downhill at full speed.  I hear a tearing sound and feel a blinding pain emanate from my left knee and I collapse downhill in a sweating, moaning pile against the trunk of a tree.

I don’t move right away, but only breathe, feeling the pain of my damaged knee, and second guessing everything. Not only today’s misadventure, but literally everything about myself. Why do I keep making bad decisions? What is wrong with me? Am I capable of changing, of being a better person? Was Bernie right about wearing out my welcome with the people who matter in my life?

Focusing on a quick damage assessment of my immediate situation, the most urgent thought is that I am completely at the mercy of my injury and the elements, and if I am going to survive this situation, I will need help.  I pull my cell phone from my pocket and turn it on. It has a charge. Good. And two bars of signal. Not great, but hopefully good enough.  I dial Joann’s cell. Amazingly, I hear it ringing. And miraculously, she answers.

“Stan?”

“Joann. I love you. I’m sorry I’m such a mess, but I need your help. Please forgive me. I will be better. Will you help me?”

“Of course. But you sound weird. What’s wrong?”

I tell her my situation, and she handles it like the wonderful person I hope to soon deserve. She calls the Mont Neige ski patrol, and less than an hour later, two humorless Quebecois ski patrolmen show up with a rescue sled and grudgingly drag me back to civilization. My knee requires surgery and I have a long recovery at home back in Albany.  But I get a second chance in life to be the husband Joann wants and needs and the good father and hero Sophie already believes me to be, and the brother Bernie deserves. Sometimes someday gets here sooner than you expect it to.