ALONE
SKI MAGAZINE
Outside, in the early morning dark, the wind is blowing and the street is filling with fine white powder. It's snowing hard in Bozeman , Montana , and I'm a stranger in town. Waiting for some buddies to arrive for a backcountry ski trip in the nearby Beartooth Mountains , I've got the rare luxury of a couple of days all to myself.
The green glow-in-the-dark watch dial hovers over my face like a distant planet, announcing the time: 5:45 a.m. I'm tempted to just roll over and go back to sleep, but I'm still on Eastern time, and it's two hours later back home in New Hampshire. The glorious snow streaking past the window also commands attention. The flakes get me thinking about skiing, naturally, about ripping through the storied cold smoke up the road at Bridger Bowl, a place I've always wanted to go. I hop up, wide awake and full of anticipation for a day on the slopes. But then I remember where I am and I think, You don't know a soul here.
Skiing is a social sport, and there's little I'd rather do than spend a day on the slopes with friends or family, reveling in our companionship, feeding off each other's energy, pushing each other to ski as well and as hard as we can. Sharing good times in the mountains is pure bliss. By comparison, the idea of spending a day on the slopes all alone seems bleak. In fact, I rarely make the solo effort. It's as if it just isn't worth doing if there's no one to share it with.
I start gathering my gear anyway, but feel my enthusiasm for the day at Bridger waning. Being a traveler means being alone and an outsider, and that can be uncomfortable. But I imagine it's going to be especially difficult at a place that prides itself on being a “community ski area.” As I face the monumental decision between ski bibs and blue jeans, my anxieties take over. Terrific , I think. You'll get there and all these clannish local yokels will close ranks, make you feel like a trespasser. Soon, of course, I'm rationalizing why I shouldn't go at all. Why don't you just relax and take it easy? I ask myself, You'll do plenty of skiing in the Beartooth. Besides, there's a big playoff game on the tube this afternoon....
Today, however, I force myself to walk out the door, get in the car, and head up the mountain into the storm. I'm there when the lifts open, and soon I'm swishing sweet arcs through a half-foot of silky-smooth untracked snow. A few hundred feet down, and I can feel a big grin spreading across my face. A couple more runs, and I realize what a huge mistake I almost made by not making the effort. I spend the next few hours moving at my own pace, directing the course of my own day, and working on specific skills. Alone, there's no one for me to catch up to, no one to slow down for, and no one to compete with. And for a change, there's no negotiating, no compromising. As I study the unfamiliar trail map and decide where I want to go next –chute or bowl, bumps or cruiser?-- I wonder why I don't do this more often.
Sometime later, screaming to a halt down in the timber at the bottom of the North Bowl, I pull up and catch my sea-level breath. In the deep stillness of the pines I can hear the wind-driven crystals hissing through the boughs. I lean back and face the stormy sky, feel the cold flakes land on my hot flushed cheeks, and yell out a euphoric “Yahoo!” It's the first sound I've made all day.
