There are lessons to be learned in the mountains. Patience.
Perseverance. A deep love of beautiful things – and the rugged power that is
often hidden by that beauty. And the lesson of taking the good – good snow,
good weather, good times with loved ones or alone – when you can get it.
I spend lots of time in winter on the mountains, namely on
one: Cannon Mountain. It is the one with which I am most familiar. The one
where I have spent the most time. It is not the only mountain I have loved, but
it is the one that most feels like home.
Last weekend I took a few solo ski runs, after fulfilling my
coaching duties for the day and before I had to return to the tasks that
awaited me at home. At one point I paused, between chairlift ride and skiing
descent, to watch four ravens play on the wind. They floated up, drifting this
way, then that, just gliding above the trees and the humans sliding below them
on the snow.
The wind was from the south, which rarely means good things
for the skiing at Cannon. But the ravens didn’t seem to care. They take
whatever wind they find, I guess.
That south wind was part of the reason I’d decided to stick
around for a few more runs Sunday. Winds howling through Franconia Notch from
the south in December typically bring warm, wet weather. The skiing was
fabulous Sunday, had been great for the first few weeks of the season, and I
wanted a few more laps on the all-natural stuff before whatever that south wind
carried watered it all down.
In the mountains, the lines between seasons are not so
definitive as they are in lower realms. I have been buffeted by icy summer
winds at the top of Mount Jefferson, when the sun shone calmly at the trailhead.
I’ve been knocked around by tremendous gusts and pelted by freezing rain in
August on Mount Adams. I’ve hiked through October snow to reach Lonesome Lake.
I’ve watched an impossibly long sunset linger across distant
peaks from just below the summit of Mount Washington (only hours – and many
miles – after being caught in that Mount Adams cloud). I’ve seen a magical show
of sun halos and pillars and glittering diamond dust in the December sky above
Cannon. And I’ve skied mid-April powder on the mountain while crocus shoots
push through the dirt in my yard not far away.
Last weekend the snow and ice were so thick and white on the
stunted evergreens near the summit of Cannon that the kids I coach decided the
forest looked like an army of yetis. To me it seemed like some fantastical
wonderland. That is how I often feel in and on the mountains – as if it’s too
astoundingly beautiful to be real. Mountains can be breathtakingly beautiful
from afar, but nothing compares to standing on a high summit as the world goes
on below.
I’ve had some challenging moments in the mountains, and some
that have scared me, too. But it’s the magical ones that bring me back again
and again, whether it’s toiling for hours to reach a summit by foot or riding a
chairlift for the easy thrill of gliding back down.
Original content by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul, posted to her blog, Writings From a Full Life. This essay also appears as Meghan's Close to Home column in the December 13, 2019 issue of the Littleton Record.
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