Snowblind

         The mountain tastes better between swigs of bourbon. At the end of the day, riding those rickety metal benches over freshly carved slopes and forsaken poles or gloves for the last time, it's not about how tough you are, or how many years you spent in Germany honing your craft. It's not about gracefully curved lines or blues or greens or blacks. It's about something greater, something far deeper. Something buried underneath all the layers. It's about being drunk.

         A damn good skier and a crazy snowboarder race down a mountain. The skier makes perfect lines down the hardest paths, never falls once and finishes last. The boarder tumbles past and hits the snow hard (the kind of hard that throws you back to your feet again). His lines are tight but not uniform. Who won that race? Is good then measured against perfection? Why does the less experienced but more reckless of the two always finish first?

         The next day is always my favorite day after hitting the slopes. Every bone and muscle in my body is aching and it is a chore just to move. So I don't. Sure, the fridge is in the other room, but anyone passing the kitchen can grab me a fresh beer, and a TV remote and cell phone are all I really need to maintain accessibility to the outside world. Tomorrow I will have to stretch out these muscles and push through the pan in order to go about my usual routine, but today I can be as languid as I need, waiting for someone to walk through the kitchen.

         I remember being on the top of a very small but very steep hill. Not really because I flew over the lip, but what I mostly remember is seeing my friend stupidly waiting at the bottom of that hill for me. Seeing him too late to not hit him.

         I've face planted into the snow before at faster speeds than I care to share, and I've landed sick jumps with my back in the iciest conditions. I've collided with stupid people (there are oh so many of them) and I've thrown myself to the ground to avoid the collisions. I've even broken a fence and landed on pavement where non-skiers can watch; likely giving them a reason to never try the slopes.

         Hitting one of your best friends at the bottom of the fastest hill on the first black diamond of the day is not something I'd like to make a habit of; though I must confess that there is something so pleasant about the tranquility that comes from lying on the snow so high up in the mountains.

         First there's the collision. My body tries to figure out how to continue flying down the mountain while untangling itself from his. His body tries to figure out what the fuck went wrong and how not to die (I imagine). Our boards try to figure out how to come off our feet and slide some unreasonable distance away. Then comes the sliding (or rolling as is usually my case).

         At last, the body stops, the board is still tethered to my leg, and after calling out at the top of my lungs, the friend responds that he is in fact still alive. It's been snowing for days, and it's been picking up all morning. The sky is beautiful from this altitude, but quickly disappearing. It's been ten minutes and he hasn't come into view from where I lay. A fresh film of snow is trying to bury me and I feel fantastic. When he finally does make it down to where I am, we show each other where our bruises will appear and place bets on whose will be bigger (I lost, but then, I did hit him). I messed up the bindings on his board and he'll have to get them fixed when we get back to the top. When I unbury myself, I do it knowing that we probably won't board together again. The snow is taking its mountains back, visibility is low, and we probably won't be able to find each other again.

         I will confess the truth of my power; the way that I can get  up from every major incident and continue boarding. The way that pain can rack my entire body for a short moment before I get back up and push harder. That morning, before pulling ski pants over my jeans (and yes they do get damp and frigid by the end of the day), before pulling the balaclava over my eyes, before pulling on a thick jacket over a thick sweater (all over some sweet long johns), I drink whiskey.

         To be fair, the whiskey is not 100% essential. I discovered this fantastic coffee that combines Frangelico, Baileys, Kahlua, Grand Marnier, coffee, and heavy cream that absolutely hit the spot right around lunch time. The point though, is not drunk to the point of being dysfunctional. Quite the opposite, the point is to numb the abuse that your body will endure over the course of the trip. And to be fearless.

         Never breaking a bone is also a plus. I probably have a god complex because of it, but then again I could just be invincible. Either way, I will kick your ass rolling down that mountain. And that blur you saw? Those whiskey winds you felt and smelt? That's me too.