21 cm

# 8 -- The unspeakable visions of the individual, and I don’t know exactly how to relate it to my recent, and upcoming experiences, but, wait, yes .

I envisioned most of this writing on the bus north to Whistler.

It had been a slow morning; I had set my alarm to make the 07:20 bus from Squamish but for some reason, kept sleeping. That dualistic battle. “I’m on vacation, so I want to sleep, but … all the freshies keep falling …. First tracks …” and dreams of snow so I keep sleeping.

The night before exactly all preparations are made to facilitate a smooth exit from the house: the coffee is preground, in the espresso machine, the water, already ready for boil. The English muffins at the ready near the toaster, complimented by the peanut butter and honey.

The kettle filled with water – the oatmeal packets and spoon already in the bowl.

Vitamins on the table. Lunch pre-packed. Clothes at the foot of the bed.

So leaving would be easy – the getting up was hard. I debated in my mind the efficacy of getting on the workforce bus without obvious work to do. Getting caught poaching. A lot of juju ran through my mind.

Sequestering that thought, I took off to make the bus – telemark boots on, ski pants, rain jacket, backpack.

Skis affixed to backpack, along with poles, riding my single speed mountain bike across Squamish to narrowly catch the bus. One minute to spare.

And I decided, as my clothes were drying out from the rain, that there has to be one essay, at least, on the actual skiing that takes place at Whistler – it is not a life entirely dictated by volunteering and writing from the Village to get away from Squamish. So today was the splurge – my one purchase of a lift ticket. A momento.

No mental grief. It had to be done – I couldn’t resist. The snow was coming down all the way from Alice Lake Provincial Park to Whistler … as I debated skinning up, I realized that today was the day I was going out with a bang.

I hopped on the gondola. Amped would be a good word. Amped that I was riding up with an Albertan from the tar sands, telling me he was making $10,000 per week.

Well, my own lack of $10,000 or $200 a day living allowance or not, I was riding.

And I remember the actual riding, the blistering winds at the top of Harmony Chair (eventually getting closed due to whiteout conditions) and the first run, the powder up to my knees, and I felt smooth.

I felt connected to the mountain – as if it was accepting my positive energy and creating a perfect flow of technique, style, lines, powder, just for me.

I was complimented on my telemark technique. “You’re hot,” the older woman said, of my style.

I blushed.

The trees were there, maybe, or I just didn't see them. I was just skiing pillows, lines where turning was necessitated by intuition.

The packed powder, the more, the better to rip, to flex my style, my quads, to show to Whistler the perspective Mont Du Lac puts on telemark style.

We can ski. Make no mistake about the Midwest telemark movement.

And once you get us on your mountains, expect nothing, only that you may find yourself learning from a way of skiing that was taught to me through watching. Once I got the chance to learn in the biggest, steepest bowls of Jackson Hole, WY, there was no turning back to alpine.

There, linking fifteen beautiful telemark turns, turns as a skier I knew were beautiful, brought an elation, a glow, to my soul.

“Keep riding – flex that foot, plant the pole – drop this escarpment, don’t think about the line, BE THE LINE.” (This gets easier with each cliff a person drops).

Telemark skiers know this – but all those that connect to energy through riding.

That is the unspeakable vision of the individual – that I feel that flow of energy and non-thought as I ski, just following gravity because I know it won’t lead me anywhere but down – and that’s exactly where I want to be.