The Last Shredder

In the dark of night, before the sun rises, he who loves to shred rises from deep slumber. He laces on his snow boots. He grabs his toast to go. He pours the hot coffee into his traveling mug dented and scratched from many miles of carrying and dropping. A lonely soul, he drives up the long winding canyon roads. Cursing under his breath, the sun scalds his eyes as it crests over the ridgeline. Biting his lip he scours the morning sky, searching and searching for the blessed storm clouds. The sky is bare, blue, and unforgiving. 

He parks in an empty lot, and stairs at the unspinning chairlift with a deep and profound sense of loss and sadness. The lodge is dark. The ground is bare. The chirping of the birds is that of a mocking and sickly tune. Turning off his engine, he finishes the last of his coffee. He gathers his gear, pulls his hat tighter around his ears, and ventures into the cold and bitter air. He trudges into the silence, sending a silent prayer to the heavens. He somehow believes that if he continues to show up with his gear, day after day, that the snow will come. 

His pack is heavy, weighed down with his fears and his worries. His boots and skis are strapped firmly to his back. His helmet bobs back and forth, poorly secured, with each step. He draws his gaiter up to cover his cheeks from the crisp wind. Each breath sends a puff of ice crystals forward, only to be propelled behind. Chapped lips crack open, and a small trickle of blood whispers at his mouth, tangy and metallic. His gloves protect his hands, and moving keeps the blood pumping. Sweat builds beneath his many layers. 

So he hikes, day after day, past that empty lifeless chairlift. He wonders if the great Ullr sees his dedication, hears his wishes. Has he done enough? The townsfolk laugh cruelly at his absurd faith. He hears the whispers from across the bar while he sips his whiskey. They call him a fool. The resorts haven’t opened. The buses won’t run their mountain routes. The weathermen say there is no end in sight. Still, he has to believe. He has to believe that the snow will come. He pulls out a crumpled bill and presses it over and over the edge of the bar to flatten it out. He draws the sign of the whale on it and leaves it folded under his empty glass for the bartender. He walks home past their stares and prepares to do it all again tomorrow. 

Sometimes he thinks they must be right. He must have lost his mind somewhere in the coldness of the mountains one day and returned without it. He must be crazy, waxing his skies in the dim light of the tv in his living room, watching ski movies on an endless loop. But at night in his dreams, he remembers. The billowing snow. The sheer joy. The smile of a thousand words. The long lines. The pumping tunes and the smell of a pocket burrito. He remembers sore legs and cold air coursing through the lungs. He remembers the way his stomach drops in a plume of snow. He remembers the thrill, of not a care in the world, of all thoughts of other being put out of mind. He wakes, with the determination to wait. As long as it takes. 

In the dark of the night, before the sun rises, he who loves to shred rises. Dutifully, he laces on his snow boots. He grabs his trusty coffee mug. He loads all his gear into the car once again. He drives up into the mountains, where he will wait for you. He is cold and tired as he pulls his backpack on once more. He stares out into the bluebird sunrise as he begins his ascent once again. 

With each step, he tries to put the doubts out of his mind. The negative thoughts, circle, waiting to strike. One step at a time. One breath at a time. The wind howls through the trees. Off the trail, a deer freezes, as it hears the crunch of his approach, then darts away. His heart pounds in his chest. Still, he continues. The birds are quiet today. The trees feel restless. 

He reaches the open meadow, which lies nestled below the rocky ridgeline. Resting his bag upon the ground, he sits for a moment on a rock. He looks out along the valley as the cold seeps through his pants from the contact with the rock. Grabbing a granola bar and his water flask he allows himself a moment of rest and stillness. 

He sets his water flask down next to his pack and kneels before it. Removing his helmet from his bag he raises it above his head to the sky. He takes a deep breath in. Slowly he lowers the helmet to the ground to rest next to his bottle. He begins to unclip his skies from his bag. The first he lays flat upon his outstretched palms and raises it to the skies. With his exhale, he lowers it to lay beside his helmet. The second ski is raised upon open palms and follows the first. 

The flask is retrieved from the ground. His gloves are stashed safely within a pocket. He trickles a small amount of water upon the ground in an arc before him. Then he carefully trickles a small ration into his hand and throws it up into the wind before him. He sets the flask down. 

Rising to his feet, he places them firmly upon the ground. He reaches his arms to the skies and begins an arcing dance beckoning the water out of the sky and down to land securely as his feet stand. He reaches, swoops, draws down. His fingers swim in the air falling soft and slow as the snowflakes used to dance. His movements sing the song of the snow dance, calling out for the precious gift of the white gold. 

As his dance comes to a close, he draws his hands to his heart center. He pauses in the mountain pose and breathes deep. Then, just as every day before he repacks his gear and shoulders it for the journey down. Each step is a little lighter than before, knowing that the end is a little bit closer. When he reaches his car, he loads his pack into the trunk. He pauses at the driver door and closes his eyes to breathe in deep before his journey out. He who loves to shred smiles. 

The mountain air smells of the promise of snow.