GFC, and Other Images After an Ending

My grandmother made the best fried chicken I knew. GFC: Grammy’s Fried Chicken. Onions, lots of onions, rosemary, salt and pepper. She would cook it with one cast-iron skillet flipped face down over another, a stroke of genius picked up somewhere long ago. I’ll never forget the sight of her in a floral apron, wielding those two skillets like tennis rackets in a rare display of physical strength, the steam and the smell of sautéing onions rising up out of the kitchen as I watched mallards through the living room window. And the meals: chicken, white rice, green beans steamed and squeaky, probably pulled from the garden hours earlier. Vanilla ice cream and home-canned peaches out of the cellar for dessert. Unpretentious, beautiful, prepared and served with quiet but steadfast pride.

When I was young, in the summertime, we would ride bikes to the neighborhood garden down the street from Grammy and Gramp’s. Gram rode a big, elegant maroon bike with a wide leather seat. It was another forceful image, like the skillets – she rode with the same slow-motion grace a child sees in the sight of his father casting with a fly-rod or his mother scooping him out of harm’s way from a passing car. In the garden, she and Mom would pick flowers while Gramp drilled us in the finer points of pulling carrots. We’d all ride or walk back to the house, baskets laden, triumphant in our simplicity.

Sometimes, when we were visiting around Christmas, we would drive into downtown Rochester to see The Nutcracker. We’d put on our dress shoes and nice shirts, Gramp a dark suit and a red tie, and Gram would bring out her fur coat. After the performance, my parents and Gramp would hem and haw about this scene or that, noting a lackluster or extraordinary performer, or discussing the Philharmonic’s next concert. Gram might chime in with a smile and a nod here, an “oh, yes” there. I will never know what emotions passed through her as she watched candy canes waltz and the violin sections sawed Tchaikovsky to the rafters. Somewhere in her past, probably before the Depression, had the young Jean Lincoln dreamed of dancing with a prince through a moonlit forest? Had she known that her life could be as beautiful and free as a sleigh cutting through freshly fallen snow?

We are losing the generation that knew a different world. The world of the Dust Bowl and Auschwitz and Hiroshima, in which barbarism could still run rampant and tornado-like across the surfaces of our so-called developed nations. My grandmother: the antidote to savagery. Beautiful, composed, private to the end. What irretrievable knowledge will pass as our elders do?

Too many of my memories fall during her waning years, when Gramp handled much of the cooking and yardwork to avoid boredom, or after they left the house, after he died suddenly, momentously, like a record ripped from the turntable with the final track unfinished. Her days then passed like the slow rolling of a placid sea, waiting for the occasional swells of family or friends visiting, holidays or the first snowfall, the single weekly uplift of Sunday dinner with my aunt and uncle. Or perhaps just waiting, patiently as ever, for that distant shore to finally appear.

At one of those Sunday dinners this past December, the last meal I would share with her, we ate strawberry rhubarb pie for dessert. I asked Grammy if she and Gramp had grown rhubarb in the garden for pies. I knew, of course, that they had. Strawberry rhubarb is my dad’s favorite, and my own, for a reason. But I wanted a story. What I got instead was poetry. “Oh, yes,” she said, smiling, then pausing as the grin faded. “Goodness, I guess those days are gone now.”

That night, unable to sleep, I wrote that Gram’s ninety-five year old mind had become a blizzard, everything blowing around, relocating, indecipherable. But beautiful to witness in its transience.

My own mind jumps too quickly to images of her in a wheelchair, fumbling a pillbox or fussing over unkempt hair, trying to remember which grandson lives where these days. But deeper back, deeper down, is the image that I know will last, the touchstone of enduring love. The sky is blue and the house snow white, and Grammy and Gramp are standing together, hip-to-hip by the old mounted bell at the end of the driveway fence, waving goodbye for now.

Magnanimous and Wild: Meeting Bob Gates and Jack Loeffler

For a man who spent significant portions of his life deciding who lived and who died, Bob Gates was startlingly placid. For a retired saboteur, Jack Loeffler was almost suspiciously congenial. And David Gessner – well, I'd read enough of his work to have a bit of a notion, and the man alive bore quite a resemblance to the man on the page. In the Gospel of Nonfiction Writing according to Gessner, that's high praise.

I'd probably never met three people of such personal and widespread import in the same year, let alone the same week. But the stars aligned in northern New Mexico in early June and there I was, two days after having lunch with the former Secretary of Defense and current president of Scouting, shaking the hand of one of Edward Abbey's best friends and meeting the contemporary author whose voice has come as close as anyone's to gripping my imagination like Cactus Ed's always does.

Robert Gates

Robert Gates is regarded by many as the best Secretary of Defense in the post-WWII era. He somehow preserved his sanity while serving consecutively under Presidents Bush and Obama, this after a long tenure as director of the CIA. He saw the light after Iraq and began a transitioning of America's image from pugnacious to peace-loving. Recently, he has assumed the Boy Scouts of America's highest unpaid position and has led the stodgy old white guys on the national board to see the light of tolerance, his speech to the body this spring the catalyst to Scouting’s overdue decision to remove its membership ban on homosexual adult leaders.

In conversation, Gates presented as a man profoundly at peace with reality, hardly what one might expect from one whose life has strung out from crisis to crisis, warzone to warzone. Rather than discuss the things he'd seen in Kabul and Kandahar, he was eager to share stories of his formative experiences in the West, of youth leadership training at Philmont and fishing at summer camp in Colorado. Now, in retirement, he resides in the northwest corner of the U.S., with a house in Washington's San Juan Islands and another in remote country east of Bellingham.

“I imagine you've been a fisherman ever since?” I asked after hearing his Colorado camp story, imagining this laid back man in jeans and a ballcap living the retired angler's dream in the Pacific Northwest.

But instead of a catalog of stories, I got a brief sigh in response. “You know, I've just never really had the time.”

Here was a man unafraid to admit regret, but far from sunk by it. A man deeply in touch with himself and the world, enough to tip the scales of an inertia-clogged organization toward the future, and to do so not in rejection of its past, but rather to preserve its true heart for all, its natal ideal of teaching youth to better the world through undiscriminating service.

When I met Gates, the resolution had not yet passed. After lunch, I gave him a final handshake and said the thing I’d been saving. I thanked him personally for his work toward equality in Scouting. “It means so much to many of us here,” I told him. He held my hand in his firm grip a moment longer – a man of small stature and large vision – and looked me in the eye, sighing again. “I know,” he said. “I think we’ll get it done.”

***

The Gessner reading two days later was typical Santa Fe. A bookstore-coffeehouse full of baby boomers in flipflops, artisan bolo ties, and everything in between. Besides a few student types shuffling on the outskirts, our row of five twenty-somethings was the only semblance of youth at the event. After an outstanding talk by Gessner, with help from Loeffler, I pointed the age disparity out during Q & A – much to the indignation of the barnacled masses – and asked the authors what Abbey and Stegner might have said to the apathetic youth of the social media age.

Loeffler's response rang out, refreshing as a clear mountain morning.

“You have to get out there in it. Ed and I always believed, once you've really been out there in it – for an extended time – you have no choice but to defend it.”

Jack Loeffler

As the crowd trickled out, I caught Loeffler for a quick handshake and thank you. I wanted to tell him a story or two about “getting out there in it,” about how we were doing our best, under the auspices of Scouting, to give 20,000 teenagers each summer that inimitable extended immersion in wildness. But Abbey's old mate, now fully grayed in hair and beard, sporting a turquoise bolo and the requisite neckerchief-style blue bandana, seemed tired. Though his eyes still possessed great energy, the creases around them spoke a different story. The man was not here to be a celebrity. While Gessner signed and drew cartoons in books and chatted with fans, Loeffler showed no desire for the spotlight. I could tell he was ready to collect his things and slip out of the cramped bookstore, back into the adobe-lined streets and the glow of the Southwestern evening.

So I abandoned prior visions of the conversation, abandoned my muddled mystical longing to somehow imbibe a bit of Abbey's lingering soul through his longtime friend. I thanked Loeffler once more, returned his smile for a moment longer, hoping somewhere within that brief connection I had brought a shred of optimism to the old monkeywrencher, a bit of relief that there were still good, grounded young folks out there fighting for the land he loved.

And perhaps that tiny piece of Ed really was passed on to me. Perhaps the real Abbey may have resembled the shy Loeffler more than the gregarious Gessner had he been at the same event. For all of the brazen iconoclasm his persona portrayed on the page, the Ed known by people like Loeffler was pensive and withdrawn more often than not, a gentle man of open spaces.

“Abbey is, more than any writer I know, this side of Montaigne, alive on the page,” writes Gessner in All the Wild that Remains, the newly-published literary ramble on Abbey, Wallace Stegner, and the current West which prompted his visit to Santa Fe. For this reader, Gessner has followed in that line, and is a more vital voice than anyone I know this side of Cactus Ed. Meeting him was several years in the making, and was just as pleasant as hoped, but it was the surprise of Loeffler which has lasted, and which has become inseparable with the surprise of Gates.

The two would seem opposing figures. Gates directed the very agency which could have investigated Loeffler. He may never have actually set eyes on Abbey's sizable FBI file, but Gates was certainly aware of the movement men like Cactus Ed and Jack had spurred. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that the former agent and the former outlaw were similarly cored.

Relaxed, engaged, cordial and unassuming – they are, unsurprisingly, two men who “got out there in it.” Whatever divergent paths their lives took, there was wildness stamped on each of them. A boy from Kansas fishing and camping in Colorado, a free-thinking Northeast defector falling in love with the western expanse: they had carried “the peace of wild things,” to borrow from Wendell Berry, with them through the world. And they had channeled it to great – if disparate – ends, to achievements which drew a spotlight they neither desired nor denied.

Now, at the end of a summer which has restored some of my damaged faith in the idea of Scouting, the Sangre de Cristos lie sprawled behind me, creamy thunderheads swirling over the deep green slopes. There are stands of Doug fir, Engelmann spruce and Ponderosa pine out there where I’ve lost myself in peace. A few thousand young people are in it right now, gaining greater intimacy with a wild world which will teach them to look beyond themselves. That I have had a hand in that growth is ample fulfillment for closure. New roads await and I will meet them beginning to grasp – still striving for – Gates and Loeffler’s contentment, the contentment of magnanimity.

Running Ridges, Changes

My feet were wettest in the deep leaf-litter. The snaredrum patter of rain on leaf pervaded, echoing through the mind chambers until no possibility of a world apart from it existed. The frequent puddles were easy enough to dodge, but when the trail sank into small gullies, last fall's oak and maple and beech became a half foot of slippery brown carpet, the chill of moisture seeping through my running shoes slowly, measurably.

That it was Marathon Monday, Patriot's Day in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, only added to the swift-arriving knowledge that I was exactly where I needed to be. Home again in the ever-welcoming womb of the old eastern hills, bearing witness to the ageless progression of early spring. The Canada geese and a great blue heron on Plum Pond next to my parents' house, barred owls raucous through my open window at night, each day a sharper raw odor of skunk cabbage in the woods, more of its prehistoric yellow-green and eggplant-speckled flowers sprouting through the soil.

Just beneath the Horse Caves of Daniel Shays – as true a New England Patriot as ever was – I stumbled upon, almost literally, the surest regional symbol of the season yet: a red eft. The bright orange, diamond-spotted juvenile stage of the eastern newt, two inches from head to tail, brilliant as a student's dropped marker, highlighting the brown pages of the forest's spring text. I paused, leaned down close to the salamander, tempted of course to pick it up, to complete the sensory extravaganza, to feel the cold stick of its delicate flanks across my fingers. But no one has picked me up against my will during the latest change in my life cycle. In Coming into the Country, one of John McPhee's magnanimous counterparts refuses to fish the wild rivers of northern Alaska, weary of “take-and-put fishing” and wondering “what kind of day a fish will have after spending some time on a hook.” I left the red eft alone and pushed on, through the tight gap in the old cave-band, up foggy Mt. Norwottuck. The summit view was a mystical deception, the front enveloping the settled valley below, naught but the hardwood blanket and dark stands of pine and spruce visible before the sea of cream-cloud, enough to make one believe himself, momentarily, amidst a vast wilderness.

The day was far from the mild, pastel-hued imaginings of nostalgia’s April. Steady rain, thermometer stuck on 48. The temptation of an afternoon on the couch with the book I'd just started (McPhee) had been significant. Despite the excitement of accepting an offer to attend graduate school in Montana in the fall, I was in a bit of a funk, to be honest. Montana sounded great, but I was not there right now and August remained a long way off. I was barely a week returned to the understated landscape of the East and I already missed the jagged clarity and drama of the West. I missed the New Mexico sky, missed my friends there and elsewhere. But wallowing had certainly never helped me before: if I was going to run the Seven Sisters 20k in two weeks, it was well past time to begin something like a training regimen.

Midway through the run, ascending a steep, leaf-padded stretch of trail, the metaphor arrived, as they often do in strenuous moments. I recalled a passage in the book I'd just finished, All the Wild that Remains, David Gessner's new study of Edward Abbey, Wallace Stegner, and the current state of the American West. While the regionally-revered authors espoused very different approaches to environmental protection, both were men of action, staunchly opposing the writer's trap of remaining content and aloof on the sidelines, narrating and commentating with the pen from the comforts of the book-lined study. “One brave act is worth a thousand books” wrote Abbey, the anarchist, the burner of billboards and pourer of sugar into bulldozers. Stegner, committed to the notion that a just and sustainable American culture was still possible, sat through long meetings and authored proposals to protect wildlands. “The highest thing I can think of doing is literary,” he wrote. “But literature does not exist in a vacuum.”

“Cold-eyed clarity,” is the virtue Gessner ascribes to Stegner. And Abbey possessed his own version, too. Both men knew the realities of their region and its recent history of abuse, and they fought like hell to improve its future. Now, as Gessner concludes, with climate change altering the arid west more aggressively than anywhere else, our populace has never needed a stiff injection of these authors' “cold-eyed clarity” more. “Stegner understood the necessity of hope,” Gessner writes, “but in the end knew that cold-eyed clarity was more important.” Do not mistake him – or Stegner – for asserting that the two are mutually exclusive. Indeed, they are interdependent: one has no foundation for hope without a clear understanding of reality.

And the reality is this: we are in the thick of the woods, the changing. The rain is falling, cold and steady, the trail to the ridge ahead most certainly uphill. We cannot wish or deny it away and return to the rosy days of the past. If we are to run this race – truly the race of our time, and of our children and grandchildren's – there is nothing to do but lean into the cold, clear our eyes, and put our best foot forward, one stride at a time, wet shoes and all.

We may even stumble upon some surprising orange inch of beauty along the way.

"Eastern red-spotted newt" by Bruce Lucas.

Taos Revived

Five o'clock on Friday in the middle of the first big storm cycle. Winter has engulfed the country, with Florida the only state on the white and pink map showing no areas of snowfall within its borders. A slippery, weary commute all that separates the workforce from its two-day respite while in northern New Mexico the minds and bodies of an intrepid subset are bent far from relaxation. Sixteen inches already this week, they collude in hushed tones, as if the internet were silent and their voices if raised would reach past the stateline to those looters from Colorado and spoil the secret. Two feet – could it be true? – still to come this weekend.

Flat, gray light waning as my loaded hatchback departs for the mountains. Sentinel ravens teeter in the chilling air like drunken specters in a world of slate. The week's heavy snows have forced the elk down from higher grounds and on the flats beneath the canyon a herd of fifty are a stone's throw and a barbed wire fence from the highway, their tawny hides clumped tight against the storm as two cows rear up magnificently equine to heights of ten feet at least and brandish front hooves at one another in agitation, as if the very beating heart of western wildness were pumping their thick crimson arteries.

I must temper forethought and footloose enthusiasm as I reach the slowly rising curves of the canyon, the road narrowing and its surface a steady progression of icy deathtraps. Snow now peppers the windshield with greater intensity, its vertiginous onslaught jarring my thoughts toward the reality that it is a year to the day since three young men from my alma mater, from the same ultimate frisbee community which cradled and challenged me, lost their lives on an icy road, on their way to a weekend of passionate recreation. Also arriving is the moment earlier this day when sorting through old paperwork I stumbled upon the name of a protege and friend of my own from a summer past who fell to his too-young death climbing in the Cascades. How insignificant our lifespans, how reckless and taunting of the world's destructive potential that we should choose these jagged and indifferent mountains, this wild season of icy abandon, as our playground.

The lump in my throat lends focus to the driving and I remember the words of an ex-teammate and budding novelist after the accident, his postulation that the afterlife might just as likely as anything else consist of a perpetual residence in the emotions and actions of our final earthly moments, and that in such a habitation those three boys were bound to all the zealous anticipation of vigorous and youthful exercise, the iron security and uplift of manly comradeship. I fish for a distant quote saying how we live each day is the truth of our existence and I realize that skiing may be trivial to the arc of nobility or justice but that it holds too those moments of urgent vitality which I cannot replicate elsewhere, that the pursuit of its mastery in the company of friends is as good a thing to love and chase as any.

It is fully dark by the time I creep up Palo Flechado Pass, the snow pelleted and insistent. I will not begin the winding descent I have been dreading yet – traffic is stopped and the creased friendly face under a ballcap and thick yellow slicker says through the icefall they're cleaning up a wreck at the first hairpin but it should only be a few minutes more. I sit in the carheat watching the flakes melt as they hit the defrosted windshield, the rivulets twisting downward like ski lines, like the unknowable pathways of life.

It is an easy descent once it begins, the slow procession of backed-up vehicles down the red-salted road an unforeseen gift of forced temperance. I reach Bill's just after the Santa Feans, their own travel a harrowing slog up the frozen curves of the Rio Grande Canyon. The abrazos are numerous and heartfelt, soon we're drinking beer and eating hot dogs, but there is a modest and urgent reverence among our company as we watch the snow pile outside and wonder incredulously at the forecast. A foot and a half already, and we're two thousand feet below the base of the mountain.

I haven't seen this in years, Bill says, and he means it. We might not see it again for even longer, Sam replies.

At 2:45 the air mattress is sagging and my mind is racing out of a canyon of icy dreams and into the dark living room. There is no logical reason why one experiences a soldier's insomnia the night before a powder day but it must be some torturous sign that skiing has invaded you to the core. I slide in and out of sleep for another three and a half hours before the alarms start sounding and we're up and out. Scant breakfast, slammed coffee, layers, hushed conversation and away. Climbing the canyon by 7:30, ahead of the crowds from points south. The envelope of cloud on mountain is absolute. It is as if we are entering a reality absolved from time and space where ravens, dark trees, snow and snow and snow have never ceased to exist and will not ever.

The throng awaiting first chair swells into the hundreds as eight approaches nine but we are near its front. Patrollers come down from invisible heights, their beards bombarded by ice and frost, like grave and haggard beasts returning to morning from the fathoms of endless night. The chairs will not all be running today, they tell us, but we will do our best. It's slow going up there. Finally the bell sounds as if to start a derby, cheers rise up from the congregated faithful, and we are carried foursome by foursome into the sea of cloud and snow. As we approach the first lift's terminus, four figures explode onto the steep run below us like superheroes of the populace, greeted by more cheers from every rider within view. Each of their turns pours a new cascade of snow downward and they are dolphins breaking the milky dormant surface, torchbearers for the devotees soon to follow their wake.

A quick and tantalizing groomer to the base of the next chair, a shorter wait, the ascent to the top, and then it begins.

The terrain of Taos Ski Valley is a connoisseur’s delight, a Stravinsky in a world of wheezing compositions. The mountain easily boasts two dozen expert runs the steepness and technicality of which can be approached only by a single pitch or two at nearly all other North American resorts. Many a brilliant skier from across the world has pilgrimed to Taos, and many have never left afterward. One is Alain Veth, former slalom and giant slalom champion of France, who is now raising a family of skiers while owning a quaint tune shop on the mountain. At eight this morning, I picked up my skis from Alain after their midseason checkup and discussing the snowfall the rapid excitement in his accent was more schoolboy than Olympian. Standing now atop Upper Pollux, gazing down at a line of deep, tight turns between aspens and snow-saddled firs, it strikes that I'm about to ski as majestic a run as any slope in the world could offer at this moment. But there is no time for sentiment at the drop-in.

I have skied deep snow before and turned my way down many a steep aspect on just the right side of control, but such a combination of pitch and powder I have never known. Turn after bottomless turn erupts beneath my skis, the trees a passing rush in the breeze, the midweight snow a tumbling pillow beneath like falling through a white dreamworld of deadened gravity. Now Sam and I are hugging and high-fiving at the bottom of the glade like giddy Christmas morning siblings and the day becomes a blur of adrenaline joy. Pipeline, Lorelei, Edelweiss. Werner's, Longhorn, Jean's. One after another, our skis pour down familiar runs with unfamiliar grace. It is the harmony of mind and body and equipment with the ancient landscape, the momentary inclusion in the nameless truth of the mountain. And it is fleeting and nearly untenable like all of the world's most pure things.

There is terrain which remains unexplored through the morning: the Highline Ridge and the West Basin, accessed only by hiking up from the topmost lift. With the highs of Taos' extreme slopes come the sobering reality of their destructive potential, never more grave than after a massive and sudden storm like this. Since dawn, patrollers have been testing the terrain, the echoing crashes of their grenades periodic through the day as they seek to trigger loose snow from the hidden empty faces. With our season passes, we have bought the peace of mind that anywhere we ski has been deemed safe. For their paychecks, the patrollers battle the haunting and capricious monster of the avalanche.

The unequaled rock-strewn chutes of the West Basin will remain closed through this storm, along with the sprawling face of Kachina Peak and its new summit-reaching chairlift, a poetic mockery by nature of the ski industry's best laid plans. By midday the Highline Ridge has been cleared however and we embark on the climb with the unfortunate haste of children rushing toward a plate with not enough cookies for everyone. There's a saying for it – no friends on a powder day. The race for first tracks seems churlish, infantile even, to the onlooker who has not been hooked by the lure of untouched descent. But the rush of anticipation has us motoring our boots upward with doubled effort, bent on finding that immaculate line.

Eclipsing treeline, all forethought ceases. We hit the ridge and an assault of wind and precipitation renders visibility and hearing near naught. The conditions on the resort below seem a plaything – ice and snow lambast from all angles like the million daggers of some Norse necromancer or crooked deity of violence and frigidity. I lose sight of the path and stumble into a chest-high drift of snow, all of a sudden swimming alone in this mad white world, legs and feet and skis fighting to slog through the weight of the misstep. Out of the drift finally, there's a quick uptick in visibility and it's just me and the ridge. Sam, the only one ahead, must have already dropped down into his line. I reach a good spot on the envisioned cornice and it's now or never. I launch forward and land eight feet down like lovers on a feather bed. One, two, five swooping and unforgettable turns have me down the first wall. A hundred-foot traverse and I'm in the shelter of the trees. Cutting left from the few tracks ahead of me, I drop into an unchristened line through a favorite stretch of glade, the turns flowing by effortlessly, the mind emptied, time an alien thing. When the run drains out onto the trafficked resort, it comes as a jarring surprise, as if the raw new world above were made to extend infinitely. But there's Sam, beaming and telling me without hint of hyperbole that was the greatest ski run of his life and me staring at my skis, at the snow, at my friend, without breath or cause to refute.

The afternoon winds its way on like the second act of a winter ballet. We ski hard until the end, catching our last chair at 3:57 for a victory lap with Bill. With the snow continuing, an evening of exhaustion and exultation finds us asleep by ten and collective soreness makes for a slower morning as we wind back up the canyon in an ant-like parade of trucks and Subarus. The word must have gotten out. But it is the mountain and not the people which will have the final dictum on Sunday. A big slide in the West Basin overnight has shut down one side of the resort, while the entire Kachina drainage is too unpredictable for opening. Skiing will be bottlenecked to the lower front side for the morning if not the entire day, the resulting lift lines bringing anxious visions of Summit County to many. But Taos has a final gift amid the turbulence as we watch patrol drop the rope and the season's first skiers traverse into North American, a steep glade which twists 1,500 vertical feet down the resort's front side, culminating in two narrow chokes requiring current snow depths for safety. By the time we're off the lift and reach the top of it, we are hardly the first to enter, but the snow remains pillowed between the naked aspens and the crowd inside whooping like questers in a revival tent. Delving into some inner reserve, the legs gather strength for a last hurrah. They pump like pistons once more as I charge down through the great grove, washed with gratitude, and maybe it's just my imagination but the sky seems a tick brighter as I course into the turns below.

Why We Come Back

And just like that, you're 25 years old.

The passage of time can be vertiginous when the places around you have changed far less than you. When you return to those formative places, those character factories of your late teens and early 20s, just the sensory nostalgia of homecoming is enough to make you forget all the interim. The same fiery sunrises, same cracked dirt oven heat of mid-afternoon, same raw smell of ponderosas after rain.

Then there are the re-lived experiences, the big dinners and star-strewn nights with your old friends who are back to visit. You talk, of course, about the new stuff, the desk jobs and the boyfriends and the graduate programs, but that's not what sticks in your abdomen and spins your mind for a loop. It's the dumb movie quotes you remember, the now-swollen legend of the day you peaked seven mountains and still made it to the bar afterward, the night you fell out of your roommate's truck.

But places with real depth do more than hold you in the bosom of the past. The land, like us, is never still. There is endless challenge in the mountains, a springboard capacity for absorbing even the longest fallers and propelling them back into the unknown clean and galvanized, bringing along the frontier zen of morning sun beside a little trout stream, the indefatigable cheer of banjo rolls on the crisp night air.

These are the places to which we return, the love we don't let die. An average of 29,127 days on this ball of earth and rock and water -- how many will be spent in the same stale fluorescent-lit air, having the same superficial conversations, thinking the same tedious thoughts?

We grow full in the shadows of the mountains. If we are lucky, we stay with them. If we hold anything like truth, they stay with us.

New Mexico Weather, Mt. Phillips, May 2012

Morning, Ponil Park, June

A rare spot, this bend in the North Ponil Creek. The canyon widens into a meadow of sorts, gentle ponderosa slopes lining to the east and west, views of Little Costilla Peak upstream, Black and Bear Mountains downstream. There's a little cemetery and some ruins of old wooden structures at the mouth of a small side canyon. The gravestones bear 19th century dates – there was once a railroad here. Now, a carpet of golden pea and aspen fleabane. A rare return, indeed.

The North Ponil is flowing – over a foot wide and nearly as deep in spots. It's cause for modest celebration amidst the drought-stricken years which have descended upon the state, where the follies of our race which transpired in offices and oil wells elsewhere now cripple even our most Edenic sanctuaries. But late snowfall and a bout of strong spring rains have provided a temporary reprieve from choking dust and gloomy thoughts. Not enough to forget the problem, but enough to savor this return to health, knowing we may not see another spring of its kind.

The elk have been out these last two days. At the Beatty Lakes they were searching for moisture in the low golden shafts of evening light, cavorting like camels on a gilded savanna. Again last night, a handful came down to the creek to drink. They didn't linger in this less-exposed area where a mountain lion (or in bygone years, a wolf) could race from tree cover and be tearing flesh from bone in three bounds, completing the ancient rite which left another member of their ungulate society nothing but sun-bleached skull, vertebrae, ribcage, and hipbones a little ways up Seally Canyon.

This morning came the other side – rebirth – as seven elk (three calves) crossed the creek, drank, then turned Seally's way, the last of the cows waiting as the final calf struggled up the steep little gully from the stream.

This peace – this relatively untrammeled continuation of things ancient and integral – makes me leap and shudder all at once. I am here with the purpose of training three young adults who will then train seven more apiece to lead scouts through these tranquil places. Just north of Philmont and visited by a handful of its itineraries, the Valle Vidal Unit of Carson National Forest has long held easy magic – so accessible yet so quiet and healthy next to the busy thoroughfares of Philmont's own property. These common elk sightings would be rare indeed in the heavier-trafficked canyons of the Ranch.

The Valle Vidal from Little Costilla Peak.

But Philmont has plans for the Valle. The NFS wants us to expand our use of the area (it must be hurting for tourist money like everything else in the state). There's talk of a rock climbing camp just below Clayton Corral, smack on the edge of the verdant sprawling valley which gives the area its name, and barely a mile from the slopes of Little Costilla Peak which remain closed through June for elk calving. Would not the sights and sounds of dozens of scouts strapping on harnesses and bellowing juvenile war-cries from the top of a little ascent disturb these protected grounds?

Presently, we are making it work up here. But that could change, even this summer, with a few more itineraries slated to explore some new parts of the unit. If we do our jobs well, these crews will pass through as we have the last few days – quietly, respectfully, quickly. I'd like to believe that we can accomplish that, that we can expand at a rate which does not disrupt harmony. But I am not overly optimistic: all we have for an example, after all, is our deer-stuffed, road-covered tinderbox to the south.

Just a handful of miles down this canyon is Metcalf Station, our new railroad-themed living history camp. The staff there invigorate scouts with talk of making history, of being the first to lay track in this canyon in a hundred years, track that their sons and daughters will see when they come to Philmont decades from now. Is that the proud legacy we're seeking? How far upstream will the sounds of hammering ties and pounding spikes reach?

No, if we want to give these scouts a real interpretive experience, let them listen to the chilling whines of the coyotes at night and rise to the sound of birdsong. Let them fall in love with the wild lands of our past, not with the ways we tamed them. Fifty years since the signing of the Wilderness Act and we have yet to raise the generation of true stewards we so desperately need.

There is such potential for good in a summer here, and such cause for concern alongside. It's the paradox of this business, this leading people into wilderness. We want it to stay here and stay quiet for aeons eternal, but the more folks we show it to, the less likely that becomes. The solution must start from the bottom, with a wholesale shift in our conception of our place in the world. And nothing inspires that shift like extended time in the wild.

These are dangerous circles to run. If anyone asks, I'm taking the hermit route. The Valle is a mosquito-ridden wasteland, to be avoided at all cost.

Confessions of a Ski Bum

I. Arrival

The snowfall is harder now and the car thermometer reads negative one. The highway quickly deteriorates into two faint sets of tracks as the climb up the pass continues. The white pellets pepper the windshield, screaming like lasers out of the black night and into the headlight beams, fast and frequent enough to be dizzying. The little silver hatchback, stuffed to the brim, shudders as it crests the pass and changes lanes before the long descent.

Finally, the plentiful lights of the valley come into view, blinding and vertiginous after the dark travail over the snowy pass. Signs announce an abundance of restaurants, chain hotels, and supermarkets. There is a mountain back there too, but its form is obscured behind the brilliance of town. Soon, the prescribed exit arrives, the car curves slowly around a sharp bend and into a new canyon, and the lights cease briefly as the smaller road extends into the blackness. A few curves later, the lights of a smaller community begin to appear. Passing through a quiet little downtown, the icy car finally stops somewhere near the right address, and its driver exhales.

I have made it to Minturn.

In the morning, I will begin to acquaint myself with this place that I will call home for the next four months. After my first night on the sofabed in the living room of the little shack by the river, I will emerge to a world wholly changed by daylight, where the east wall of the canyon rises steep and mysterious, the snow, rock, and sparse vegetation forming distorted faces and other bizarre art. Where the western slopes rise more gradually into the sprawling national forest, Engelmann Spruce towering and dark against the plentiful snow.

But first comes the first trip to Kirby's. It's the one-room bar closest to our five-room house, full of strong beer, clean whiskey, and cabin woodwork. After the long drive, the light on the beams and the bartop is as warm and inviting as late afternoon sun. Despite the frigid night, there's a healthy crowd inside and the three men nearest us are huddled around an iPhone, talking hunting and looking at pictures of a mountain lion, two of them drinking Budweiser, one IPA. In one corner, a man and woman are playing guitars and harmonizing ably on a little pallet of a stage. At some point after the old friend who's given me the sofabed arrives from work and we've caught up on lost time, they start playing Neil Young's “Helpless” and I start feeling at home.

Soon I will really begin to understand Minturn. Each time I drive down Main Street – the only real street – the towering rock of the canyon will quickly impose itself upon my consciousness. I'll begin to see that the wild dwarfs the human in this little bubble of a mountain town, that I'm never more than a glance away from something massively older and truer than myself.

But for now, Kirby's is more than enough.

***

II. The First Powder Day

I'd been in Colorado for barely two weeks, but the moment had been almost two years in the making. It was my first day off after a busy run of job training, eight inches of fresh snow lay on the ground, and my buddy Chad and I were standing at the top of an untouched line.

I had skied out west for the first time two years prior during my spring break from an outdoor education job in Texas. After two magical days with the steeps and trees of Taos and a couple more exploring Crested Butte, the idea took hold somewhere along the desolate highway between Amarillo and Dallas. If I could swing it, I told myself, I'd head back to those mountains sooner rather than later. And this time it would be for a full winter.

A couple of years and a couple of jobs later there I was, about to start living, as they say, the dream. The slope in front of us wasn't the steepest at Beaver Creek, wasn't one of its much-heralded glades or chutes, and that was good. There would be plenty of time for those attractions. Right now, all they would do is distract from the real gift: snow.

I've only been surfing a handful of times, but I've had the comparison corroborated by those with far more experience: that there's something deeply similar to the thrill of riding waves and skiing powder. That harnessing of a gigantic, indifferent natural force and the fast and fluid travel with it across a forgiving surface: it stirs something both massively invigorating and soothingly harmonious within us, and for most every ski (or surf) bum, it's the feeling that breeds our insanity.

The winter had been unfairly lucky so far. The mountains of north central Colorado had been spared the drought crippling much of the West and instead received a wealth of early season snowfall. So far, I had certainly picked the right year to indulge my ski bum fantasy. As the powder piled up throughout December, every skier I knew was jealous, from friends in California cursing the dry Sierras to those like Chad, an old camp buddy now living in Denver, who'd followed the advised post-college route, gotten a steady job, and now spent his weeks dreaming of the mountains from a desk.

Of course, I had no idea whether this charmed life would continue all season, but in admirable hippie fashion, I told myself that none of that mattered as I stood atop the run. Today was a special one, and that was all I knew and all I needed to know.

Breathing deeply like some five-cent shaman, I pushed off into the rush of crisp morning air and saw my skis and boots disappear in the snow. I focused every ounce of energy and attention into the mountain-skier fusion of which I was half. Turn after turn flowed together like a rush of rapids and by the end of the run, I was more alive than I'd felt anytime since those fateful days at Taos.

The grand adventure had begun in earnest, and I knew that whatever came of this winter would be worthwhile. After that first perfect powder run, the rest would just be gravy. I had officially joined the dying and wonderful cult of the ski bum.

***

III. Notes from the Oregon Trail

“All that which lies beyond the end of the roads.”

Such was Edward Abbey's qualifier when he opened Desert Solitaire by calling the canyonlands near Moab, Utah “the most beautiful place on earth.”

Standing in Arches National Park for the first time, watching the white winter sun send huge, cartoonish shadows out from the bases of the red rocks, I am inclined to agree. This place is like nowhere on earth.

I have just gotten out of the automobile which carried me here from Colorado. It remains only a few hundred yards away, parked beside one of the several blacktop roads which snake through the park like restraining bonds. But as I walk down a little wash, with the big rock formations looming on all sides like gargoyles, the road is out of sight and feels, for a moment, miles distant. As I take my first good deep breath of cold canyon air, a raven floats overhead, sharp black on the still-blue sky. It gives a few noisy croaks of welcome and I chuckle inwardly, imagining it to be far more than itself. If Ed had been one for reincarnation, after all, it's hard to imagine a more fitting destination for his soul than inside the body of a sentinel raven at Arches.

My fantasy will only last a moment. Ed was right, of course, about the beauty of the roadless places, but for better or worse, this January vacation – a week-long barnstorm from Minturn to Portland with a college friend and her sister – will not be about all of that. Instead, I will find a different invigorating joy in the road itself, in changing faces and new landscapes appearing through the windshield.

Here at Arches, I long for more time. Time to fully explore the nooks and crannies, to find some of Ed's old haunts, to build a fire of juniper and cook up some pinto bean survival sludge while considering the painted desert and the snow-capped Sierra La Sal beyond. Instead, as daylight wanes, we zip from photo op to photo op. We reach Window Arch, along with several other parties, as sunset reaches the height of its drama and the low-angle light has the rock aflame in orange. It is beautiful and majestic and timeless, yes, but transcendence rarely follows the guidebook, and the real magic of this evening waits until after we've finished our scurryings and pulled off into an empty parking lot beneath the hulk of Balanced Rock. Without much convincing, Claire and Kelly join me in sitting atop the van and drinking a beer during the final minutes of daylight. Soon, the rocks are haunting silhouettes, sleeping giants still indifferent after another day on display. We sip from our bottles, sing a few songs, and watch Venus, Orion, and a perfect half moon take center stage. We have settled into the rhythm of one another and of the road, and the rest will be the stuff of legend.

After a detour south and west to the stunningly grand and Edenic canyons of Zion National Park, we work our way north from Utah through the Tetons and into Montana. The road is a slideshow of Western expanse, from red rock mazes to deep green forests to jagged snow-capped ranges. The company is top-notch, with good music and good conversation filling the old white minivan, the likes of Patty Griffin, Waylon Jennings, and Dave Van Ronk accompanying this undeniably Kerouacian montage.

On a cloud-covered morning we leave Driggs, Idaho and follow the western edge of the hiding Tetons north, emerging from the four-foot snowbanks of Targhee National Forest into the Madison River Valley of southern Montana. Sunlight and warmth greet our arrival, illuminating distant white peaks and black cattle punctuating a vast golden sea of ranchland. Our two-lane follows the bends of the swift-rushing river. Bald eagles perch above its frozen banks, scouring dark waters. Rich and contrasting color is everywhere in this bright land of extremes. I imagine the electrifying sensation of frigid water and warm sun, slipping into a Norman Maclean fantasy of summer afternoons, fly rods, and a current teeming with trout.

I'm awakened from reverie as we pull into the little cowtown of Ennis. It's just past noon, and following a friend from Helena's tip, we decide to take a quick hydration break at Willie's Distillery, a little family operation on Ennis' wide main drag. The smiling bartender, somewhere in her thirties, also the place's bookkeeper, is wearing a fleece vest from the Pro Rodeo Championships, and as she introduces us to Willie's damn good bourbon recipe, she launches into the story of their busy weekend working a big event up in Great Falls. Soon she is showing us photos of her own horses and as I tell her about my grandfather touring with a rodeo in his 20s and my mom barrel-racing in her younger days, I remember that here are my people too, that no matter how many cities I live in or degrees I earn, my roots are just as cowboy as cosmopolitan.

It's with this fittingly divided spirit that I will reach Missoula, where we spend the next couple of days with friends of Claire and Kelly. Missoula, the university town amidst the ranches. Missoula, the place Wallace Stegner has so exalted in my mind as the archetype for a true and sustainable western community. The place where I've already told myself I should attend graduate school. Inevitably, it falls short on first impression. After two days, I leave unable to pin down my feelings for the place. It is trying to hold onto the old western town of A River Runs Through It, proud of the glorious mountains, rivers, and valleys which surround it, but simultaneously trying to embrace the hip trends of Portland and Seattle. A few blocks from an old cowboy saloon is an establishment called the Peace Store, selling, among hundreds of other screaming bumper stickers, one that reads “Missoula: Just 30 Miles from Montana.” Above the icy Clark's Fork of the Missouri River, where I watch a kestrel range overhead, there are the familiar cafes and bars that can be found anywhere from Amherst to Ann Arbor to Berkeley. Perhaps Stegner is right and the tension is a good thing. Perhaps it will eventually lead to compromise and progress. As the droughts worsen it may happen out of necessity if not desire for harmony. But for now, I see only the extremes. As one of our hosts tells the story of a neighbor's beautiful and expensive Malamute dog being shot accidentally by deer hunters, I fear for the place and for all places where old and new attempt to coexist in such obdurate contrast.

A more genuine Montana presents itself just a night later, not in Missoula but an hour north on the southern tip of Flathead Lake, in the struggling Kootenai reservation town of Polson where my old college buddy and teammate Bryce has been toiling as editor of the tiny Lake County Leader, his office a cramped one-floor newsroom in a two-street downtown. Our entrance into Polson is impossibly dramatic, and not because Bryce has announced it to the entire town with a welcome note on the header of this week's paper. From Missoula we've driven north up the heart of the Mission Valley in late afternoon sunlight, dwarfed beneath the jagged forms of the range bearing the same name. Steep ridges, saw-toothed, snow-drenched summits, brilliant gold on the white faces, an alpenglow I'd only seen before in Alaska. Soon we're perched above town with a pink sunset stretching over the hazy expanse of the lake, beyond it another range, the Swans, looming in a coat of white, reminiscent of no less than the Alaska Range and Denali at this distance. The gifted author and activist Rick Bass settled in northwest Montana because as soon as he'd arrived he recognized a truth now apparent to me, that this is our most wild place left in the lower 48.

After this grand welcome, the evening in Polson plays out like some twisted and beautiful combination of On the Road and Glee. The setting: the Lake Bar, a dusty, low-lit and low-budget joint just through the wall from Bryce's office. In the red glow, locals return the sass of a young and aggressive female bartender named Leslie. We soon learn that it's open mic night, a new monthly experiment being organized by a gentle middle-aged townie named Mike. A pair of guys somewhere between high school and college age begin, playing guitar and singing everything from Dylan to Pearl Jam, one significantly more talented than the other, but no love lost because of it. Mike occasionally joins in for a tune on mandolin. Slowly the bar fills with a true smorgasbord of humanity, everything from overweight Kootenai women to sad-eyed and big-hearted white schoolteachers to the burned-out early retirees from the expensive lake houses outside town. Once Mike's two young regulars have decided to break, a tall, rail-thin Kootenai youth gets up to read a few slam poems. Pausing in front of the microphone to survey us from beneath his long, straight, jet-black hair, he belts out of nowhere the opening of “Ave Maria” in faux vibrato. It takes a few seconds after he's stopped with a quick “just kidding” for the bar to offer some nervous laughter. Then he launches into a set of rapid verses about the misunderstood youth of a kid on the rez. It's a wild change of pace from the last act and his aggression catches everyone off guard for a moment, but surprise turns to small-town support before long, and after his first performance a big round of applause rewards the youth's bravery.

And then, finally, the moment arrives as Mike heads to the mic and casts his gaze to our table in the back. Kelly has been writing songs for a while now, and one of our quickly-adopted goals of the trip has been to boost her performing chops wherever possible. So Mike calls her up, announcing that she's “on a sojourn to Portland,” and in seconds the night has become a special one for the good people of Polson, Montana. Kelly sings the opening lines to a song called “Reeling In,” and the bar falls reverentially silent. Folks who have only been paying half attention turn on their stools and stop their conversations as the sheepish hippie girl from Oregon finger-picks someone else's guitar and sings of fishing poles and laying an old body down in the river. Somewhere, I think, John Prine is smiling.

After Kelly does a couple solo numbers, she motions pleadingly to Claire and me and we join her for a three-part rendition of “I Shall Be Released” which we'd worked up in Moab. It's my first time on stage in a while and the entranced crowd is a sight to behold as we work through the old traditional. Middle-aged women mouth along silently, the local pot dealer nods his dreadlocked head slowly in time, Mike beams from the corner. A sojourn to Portland is a bit too high-stakes, I think. This is just having an adventure – a release – because we can.

By the end of the night, I'm a healthy number of Montana microbrews in and there's a jolly band of five or six of us on stage jamming to “Heart of Gold.” A few new performers have come out of the woodwork, like stocky, red-faced Paul, who claimed to only play in public once a year but was convinced by his friends' raucous chanting to make this the night. As we close our tabs and stumble out into a black night seared by stars, it feels like we've done something small but special. If nothing else, we've given them all a break in the monotony of a small-town winter, something to laugh about over coffee in the days to come. And for us, it's just further proof that this road – this so-called sojourn – won't be forgotten soon.

***

IV. Wild Mountain Children

It might sound trivial, as it would be most places, but at Beaver Creek, when your students choose skiing over cookies, it's the ultimate compliment. When it finally happened unanimously in late March, I knew I could declare my season a ringing success.

It was only a 10 minute drive, but when I left Minturn each morning for my job as a children's ski instructor at Beaver Creek Resort, I entered an entirely new and baffling world.

It's a world perhaps best described by the mountain's unapologetic slogan, “not exactly roughing it.” A world where one can park the car and travel to the chairlift via bus and escalator without taking a single uphill step in those cumbersome boots. That's if, of course, said patron is not, like most, staying at the Ritz Carlson or the Park Hyatt or the Westin Riverfront (direct slope access via private gondola!), or any of the other monstrous faux-rustic structures lining the lower reaches of the mountain.

It's a world where Tom Hanks and Gerald Ford have owned houses, where one can choose from three different reservation-only slopeside restaurants (entrees beginning at $25) accessible only by ski or private snowmobile. A world where a Swiss couple, as I once witnessed, will walk into my roommate's Patagonia store and walk out an hour later with brand new three-layer outerwear systems and a minor dent of three grand chipped from the AmEx (minor, of course, because the average family of four drops $20,000 of its non-average income over the course of its week-long stay at America's Premier Family Resort).

Closer to home, it's a world where my employer, without trace of sarcasm, markets itself as “The Ivy League of Ski Schools.” Where grim-faced instructors with decades of certified experience pinpoint their private client's flaws in ankle tipping, hip rotation, and knee flexion and administer the Professional Ski Instructors of America's (or, affectionately, the Pompous Self-Important Assholes) prescribed treatment for such heinous ailments.

Finally, its a world that is famous, above all, for chocolate chip cookies. Yes, chocolate chip effing cookies, handed out fresh, warm, and impossibly delicious at the base of the resort come three o'clock each afternoon. Indeed, for many years, it has not been the world-class instructors or the top-flight accommodations which have appeared most consistently on the resort's feedback surveys, but those damn cookies.

And it's telling that something so simple could be so transcendent, because beneath its embarrassment of riches and hilarity of pretension, Beaver Creek remains a world where families come to play in the snow, to slide down thousands of feet of Cretaceous uplift on pieces of plastic and metal and wood because long ago someone in the Alps did it and realized there was no greater thrill on earth.

With this spirit of freedom and abandon (the roots, after all, of the sport), I became an undercover rebel against the Ivy League of Ski Schools. I smiled broadly at the eight-year olds and cracked jokes with their parents when they showed up for class in the morning and again at 3:30, when I sent them off with their official report cards full of check marks. One day, I informed a Gucci-clad Dominican mother that I would not be working tomorrow and she replied in broken English, “but how can we find another teacher as happy as you?” I was at once flattered and concerned when I could only conjure a few names to recommend.

The thing about kids, even Beaver Creek kids: they're pretty damn hilarious when allowed to be kids. After an evening of artisan Mac and Cheese, ice skating, or Cartoon Network on the hotel flat screen, they'd show up for ski school and one of the first tasks I'd give them is to come up with a team name more original than “Matt's Class” (memorable consensuses included the Fluffy Doughnut Skiers, the Crazy Unicorn Shredders, and the Supersonic Snow Cheetahs). By the end of the first gondola ride, I'd be going all-out camp counselor and pounding them with icebreaker questions like “if you could have anything come out of your belly-button on command, what would it be?” (worst answer: my X-Box. Best: whiskey).

And so, on a good day, by 10:30 or so a group of once-sheltered junior millionaires would become one of the world's most kinetic and fearsome things: a pack of wild mountain children.

The next five hours generally warranted the description “organized chaos.” Between parallel turning drills, there were snowball fights (as long as all parties consent, which, shockingly, they almost always do). After a crash course on tree skiing safety, an intermediate class might get to play “Follow the Leader” through a glade, their smiling instructor sweeping the rear to clean up the just-short-of-disastrous results.

The characters and the stories which emerged from this relative freedom were nothing short of heroic. There was little Emery, the shy seven-year old with the missing front teeth who looked shaky enough on the first run of her first day that I tried to move her down a level, only to have her adamantly refuse and spend the next week doggedly improving into a confident intermediate who moved up two levels rather than down one. There was Jake, the portly and affable 11-year old who quickly became ringleader of my Presidents' Week class, who led the group in a rousing ceremony of Class Superlative Awards during afternoon hot chocolate breaks, all the while fighting desperately – and finally succeeding, with great joy – to overcome a debilitating fear of steeps and moguls. And of course there was Pierce, the hell-bent eight-year old terror who presumed that skiing parallel permitted him to ski any terrain at any speed, but who, by the end of a week spent making new friends and learning the art of control, was eager to hang at the back of the group and help up every classmate who fell.

Of course, against our best judgment, we become attached to the kids we teach, even when we teach them for just a day or a week. Before becoming a children's instructor at one of America's ritziest resorts, my experience with kids of this age was as an environmental educator for Houston's inner-city elementary schools. It's hard to imagine two more discrete populations from which to draw students, yet it was the same goal which precluded success in both settings, that of creating a space in which kids felt safe and free to be themselves. It was, too, the same kind of goofy and triumphant moments which made each job so worthwhile. And at the end of a day in Colorado, as at the end of a week in Texas, it was the same sinking I'd feel as I watched my students return to a stratified life which might never reveal to them just how similar they really were to those at the other end of the spectrum.

I wasn't changing the world at Beaver Creek, at least not much. I was working within a sphere of immense privilege, and by getting kids excited about skiing, of all things, perhaps I was just helping perpetuate that sphere. But I'll choose to believe in the other side of the coin, to believe that even if their parents are paying hundreds a day for it, simply being outside and active in the mountains – exposed, at least briefly, to something far older than their material existence – is the most positive experience a child can have.

Which is why I couldn't have asked for a better coda to the season than what transpired on one of my last days teaching. We finished a run just before that magical three o'clock hour, and expecting the answer any sane child would give, I asked the kids, “Do you want to wait a minute and eat cookies, or keep skiing?”

The response came roaring from every wild throat:

KEEP SKIING!

***

V. The Last Powder Day

It's perfect, I tell myself. It's so perfect I almost don't want to ski it.

Like a painter pausing in front of a naked canvas, or a musician relishing the silence between movements, I realize that the anticipation itself is perfect and I don't want it to end just yet.

On my last day freeskiing at Beaver Creek, somewhere in the sidecountry past Royal Elk Glade, my bladder has stopped my traverse at a most fortunate moment. Half a foot of snow has fallen overnight, but by early afternoon even my favorite out-of-the-way spots on the resort are tracked out. So I've gone exploring, and been rewarded. I've found the dream line: an untouched pitch of moderate steepness cascading down through the dense Engelmann spruce and Douglas fir, just wide enough for turning, too narrow to feel completely safe.

The sun is out now after last night's snow, the still-wet trees sparkling in the warmth of early spring. Around me, however, hangs yet the deep silence of winter. The welcoming pungency of the evergreen boughs, the sharp contrast of dark, rich green over the cream-white carpet. It's all so damn poetic – how could I interrupt this perfection?

But if I don't, someone else, I know, will. We're all greedy in this business.

Greed, after all, has been one of the driving forces of this whole adventure. Not just the benign greed that permits a family to spend twenty grand on a week of vacation, but my own. What besides self-indulgence could inspire a young man to suspend his admittedly-murky career goals in favor of a teenager's ski bum fantasy? In favor of a sport reserved for an immensely privileged, overwhelmingly white sliver of the world? Yes, somewhere along the line I've decided that this would all be okay, that as long as I remained aware and grateful and tried to pass on a bit of that humility to the kids I taught, I could get away with this grotesquely greedy life decision.

And make no mistake, I have reveled in that self-servitude. As a first-year instructor at a resort aimed far more at out-of-state vacationers than locals, I have had more than ample time to exercise my greed. A feast-or-famine work schedule has provided not only greater plummeting of my checking account balance than hoped for, but also a great many days of sublime skiing far from the Smurf-blue uniform or the raucous eight-year olds.

I think back on it all with far more pleasure than guilt. On the days of tearing through the trees at Vail with the buddies up from Denver, or the lung-splitting bootpack up the Upper East Wall of A-Basin and the primal rush of the descent. And also, just as fondly, of the lazy mornings of drinking coffee at home then driving to the back of the employee lot, hiking up to one of the smaller lifts, and skiing the bumps and trees as hard as I could for three or four hours, all without speaking to anyone besides the occasional liftie. Even at a glitzy ski resort, after all, the mountains love introversion and extroversion equally.

Yup, I'm a greedy sonofabitch, I tell myself as I return to present. But it's been a damn fun ride with some great stories to tell. And suddenly hearing the traffic of others behind me, I cast a last lustful gaze upon the line below, already pulsing with the perfect smoothness and rhythm of the turns to come, and push off into the sea of snow.

***

VI. Valedictory

It's dusktime during my final week in town. For the last time this winter, I'm walking the half mile down to Kirby's, where I'll meet some roommates and neighbors for a few last beers and laughs. It's been warming up and a mild breeze hints with joyful anticipation of the coming months, of many a pleasant night under the great western sky. But I will not be in Minturn for them, and the thought quickly transforms my walk into an emotional valedictory.

The place, I realize, is singing to me. As I stride along the sidewalk, reclaimed from several feet of snowbank in recent warm weeks, the Eagle River follows me, chortling irrepressibly just a few yards down from the road. I can picture it in another month or two: what's left of the snow receded, families or lovers or friends sitting along the needle-strewn banks beside a picnic or a crackling campfire. I can practically hear their laughter now, and am once again flooded with the desire for more time and great wonder at its passing.

On the western side of the canyon, the Engelmann spruce cast their grand silhouettes against the blue-black mirror of sky. It is that final moment when one can still see things in detail from a good distance away. Soon the darkness will be at hand, the world turned to flat shadow, and I'll plunge on, trusting that the unknown will prove benevolent upon arrival.

The river sings with the unquenchable freshness of Eden. Rock looms steadfast above. How can I, so transient, possibly feel such deep love for them, so timeless, as I do in these waning moments? I will return – I must – I promise myself, knowing already that I may just as likely not, that the only certainty is uncertainty. Stealing one more savoring glance at it all, I walk forward into the night.

***

VII. Epilogue: The Future

My first homeward stop lies south, not east. It's the last weekend of March, but there's just enough snow left in the mountains above Santa Fe. It's only fitting: it was Sam who first introduced me to western skiing two years ago; he should also be the one to accompany me on my first true backcountry tour.

Three hundred miles south of Minturn it has been an entirely different winter. While the snow came in heaps to north central Colorado, it left the Sangre de Cristos of New Mexico high and dry. Sam has kept me apprised of the damage via text message, so I'm not surprised to hear the phrases “only a couple good weekends” and “historic drought” tossed around by his buddies as we catch up over beers in 65-degree Santa Fe (of course, in this state, each year's drought now seems to carry that label). The warmth is fitting too, I suppose, for this visit is at once a coda to the season now passed and a preview of the one to come, when I'll return to the Land of Enchantment for another summer in the mountains at Philmont Scout Ranch.

Despite the balmy weather in town, I'm determined to ski, even with high winds in the forecast and assurances from Sam that what snow remains between 10- and 13,000 feet in the Pecos Wilderness will be far more like the stuff we grew up skiing in New England than the powdery diet I've been spoiled by this winter. What's more, I've flouted ski bum tradition and tried to actually leave the mountains without declaring myself completely broke, meaning I've resisted purchasing the full backcountry ski arsenal of new boots, bindings, climbing skins, and avalanche safety equipment. But if New Mexicans are anything it's generous, and with only a couple of phone calls Sam has outfitted me from friends' gear and declared me fit to join him and our buddy Steve in the backcountry. Borrowed equipment, poor conditions, and a dicey forecast? Just the makings of a grand adventure.

The tour does not actually begin in the backcountry, but at the base of Ski Santa Fe, the little resort 20 minutes from town where it is still 50 degrees and the locals are loving it, riding in tank tops, baseball caps, and of course, jeans. We strap on skins and hike up the sides of a few groomers in our baselayers before cutting off into the woods of Santa Fe National Forest. With a few good Minnesota winters of nordic skiing under my belt, I take to the skinning quickly and as we climb up through the last of the spruce and fir, the scents and shapes of this particular forest quickly remind me of a favorite stretch of trail at Philmont. Breathing deeply, I push doggedly after Sam, at once in love with the landscape, the exertion, and my freedom to experience them both. It never takes long for these New Mexico hills to welcome me home.

And now comes the moment of which one never tires: the emerging from treeline into the open highlands. Soon we're atop Nambé Ridge, the earth sprawling below, a fierce but tolerable wind whipping across our shells. Predictably, I insist on stopping to enjoy it for a few moments before we drop into the chute we've picked out to ski. To the north and east rise big Truchas Peak, Santa Fe Baldy, and the rest of the Pecos Wilderness, to the south and west the rooftops of Santa Fe and the sun-baked flats of the Rio Grande Valley. While just as impressive, it's a softer, more rounded landscape than the jagged ranges of Colorado. It's a reflection, I believe, of the elusive harmony which its inhabitants still seek, the balance prized above all else by its native residents, the Diné.

I could meditate with these hills all day, but now it is time to chase my own modern version of balance. It is time to counter austerity with adrenaline. The Nambé Chutes are steep, there are rocks aplenty to avoid, and the unpredictable snow conditions will require undivided focus. This is no buttery powder line at Beaver Creek, and the thought exhilarates me. I've always been one to seek out the ugly in nature along with the glamorous, to cherish the raw force of a July hailstorm as much as the dazzling sunset that might follow. So I launch myself into the chute full of piss and vinegar and the reward is a good one: the borrowed skis respond well to the alternating corn snow and ice, my legs feel powerful as I jump through each turn, and before long we're exchanging fist-bumps at the bottom of the wall.

Our joy won't last. The mountain has other ideas. We begin to climb back up for a second lap, but are halted before long, the pitch too steep for skins, the snow too slushy to bootpack. Our plan of another descent or two in the chutes then a glorious victory ski through the resort to cap the day will have to go. The bulk of Nambé Ridge separates us from our destination, and there's no way to get back over it here. We'll have to pick through the woods on this side and cut back further down.

Fending off frustration, I hike up as far as I can just to grab a few more turns. You're preposterously lucky to be doing this in the first place, I tell myself. Don't get greedy. But as I start carving through the slush at the bottom of the chutes, I do get greedy. I'm feeling great about my skiing and decide to play around, exaggerating my turn shape and letting my speed pick up. No sooner has my focus shifted from the mountain to myself than my left ski stalls in some heavy snow and I'm tumbling headfirst down the still-steep pitch, sunglasses askew, hat flying, one ski ejected. Thankfully I'm far from any rocks and the damage is only to my pride. But the lessons are clear: no matter how much sweating the climb might induce, I'll never leave my helmet behind again, and then, for the second time today, the hard truth that the mountain cares not. There's no room for selfishness in the backcountry. The moment harmonious thought gives way to egotism, a price is paid.

Humbled, I resolve to embrace the rest of our adventure in whatever form it takes. And once we've handled a few hairy pitches through the trees and navigated around a pair of small but still-frozen lakes, we're rewarded. There are few sights more relieving than that of a trail sign when lost in the woods. Of course, my trusted companions will be the first to tell you that we were never really lost, and indeed, I was never too worried, but with the afternoon turning to evening and our stomachs growling, we breathe a bit easier once we've intersected the well-traveled Windsor Trail and begun a gentle two-mile skin out. As we cruise through massive colonies of aspen, Sam feels the need to apologize for the fact that my first tour has featured far more uphill travel than down. Damn selfless New Mexicans, I think, laughing. “You're forgetting,” I tell him, “that I spend my summers hiking these mountains for fun.”

As we finish off the tour carrying our skis down the muddy trail to the resort parking lot, I'm feeling decidedly harmonious. Suspect conditions and unforeseen detours have done nothing to diminish my love for these mountains, and the limited amount of downhill has made those turns all the sweeter in memory (the ones, at least, that didn't result in me upside down). But after we've feasted on pizza and beer in town, after we've spent a last night playing old songs and plotting new adventures, after I've re-packed the car and begun the journey from one home to the other, there's another feeling that rises with surprising force. And it's fear. As the images of that day in the backcountry replay themselves, I'm no longer able to filter out the details I chose to ignore then: the dry trees, the quickly-melting and slushy snow, the omnipresent brown and dust of the warm flats below. It will be a hard summer – a hard future – for this land I love. Whatever harmony I might feel with it in my moments of inspired recreation is little to the discord begun long ago. Silently, I recommit myself both to the place and to the work I will soon begin. I must hold onto hope that my meager efforts will help spark greater motions, that it is not too late to step back toward balance.

And of course, I must hope that these efforts do not come at the cost of hopefulness itself, that no matter how bleak the outlook, I will remember the words of this wildly enchanting region's fiercest advocate and enjoy it all, while I still can.