If you can see Mt. Baker, you are part of The Experience
Chardonnay
I look out over a sea of jagged white peaks. The ridges before me are layered such that they block the view of the treeline, creating the illusion that I am in an otherworldly fortress of snow, rock and ice.
I snap on my skis and take a couple turns. The snow is firm, but grippy and fun. A couple hundred feet later, it softens into perfect corn. I find myself effortlessly arcing down the mountain, hooting and hollering and yelping with pure joy.
A veil has been lifted. It’s like I’ve been waiting my entire life for this moment. I do short, fast turns, I do long, swooping turns. I feel my hips rotate and pop and sway to the rhythm of the mountain. The snow never breaks down, never gets heavy and mushy, it just keeps being perfect, turn after turn after turn. 2,500 feet later, I pull to a stop at the end of the run and trust fall backwards into the snow, giggling like a little kid.
A hemlock tree gently catches the breeze in front of me, and its branches sparkle in the sun, sharing my joy. It feels like this perfect moment will last forever.
Then it hits me: it won’t.
In fact, it’s already ending. I can already feel the joy, which seemed so invincible, leaking out of me like air out of a punctured tire. And the toil ahead and behind slowly creeps back into my mind.
Waking up before dawn. Hours of bushwhacking with skis on my back, postholing in breakable crust, skittering down refrozen avy debris, panting uphill in endless switchbacks. Hours and hours of toil, anger, frustration, urgency, uncertainty, disappointment and 20 minutes of pure joy that was over before it started. Was it even 20?
I curse the hemlock through the last of my giggles.
Later, as I make my way back down from Mamie Pass, I’m plunge-stepping down the steep forest, the skis on my back constantly getting caught in branches or hitting my ankles. I broke one of my ski poles earlier so I only have one to help me navigate down the hill. My legs are tired and I’m hungry.
Suddenly I notice my situation and a wave of good humor comes over me. I laugh out loud and think, “Here I am.” And I feel complete.
This time, when the mood passes, it doesn’t feel like anything has been lost, because I never thought there was anything to keep.
Real happiness can’t be stolen from you. That’s what Chardonnay taught me.
So spare me that flimsy happiness made of views of unlimited pristine peaks, a perfect sunny-but-not-too-hot day, and mind-blowing corn for thousands of feet. Spare me that fleeting happiness created from blower powder, cold smoke, epic couloirs, and proud lines. And for the love of God, spare me that fragile happiness built out of the rad, the impressive, the classic, and the innovative.
Leave me out of it. I want nothing to do with it.
Instead, put me in a thicket of alders with a heavy pack, skis on my back, and not a patch of snow in sight. Covered in dirt. Sweaty, smelly, hungry, thirsty, farting.
Watch as a maniacal grin spreads across my face. Watch as I roar with laughter. I laugh so hard the screws rattle out of my temples and the puppet strings strain and finally snap. Watch as I look up at the sky, shake my fist and shout: “Haha! You’re going to have to do a lot better than that, you old bastard, you hear me? Guess what? Your plan didn’t work! I’m still happy!” X
