Cold and clear, the dry night air was crisp and silent. A cold front had settled behind the winter storm that left feet of pow. Tonight was perfect for night sledding at the local ski area. We packed our gear and met our group at the base at six. Lumbering from the warmth of the cars, struggling with light gloves, we laced our boots, tightened our snowshoes, and clamped on our helmets. Starting at 7,885 feet above sea level we began the journey to 9,895.
Head lamps off we began climbing under the guise of nearly invisible moon. Leaving the lights of the base behind our journey we entered into the realm of black and white. In the darkness form is manipulated by absolutes; the flat white plains of the ski run contrasted by the jagged horizon line of trees, barely discernible against the star filled night. Tilting your head towards the heavens reveals the celestial cloudiness of the Milky Way. It is here you see stars. The cadence of our climb marked by the foggy exhale of breath. Silence pierced by the moans of metal cleats on frozen snow. The air had pulled the snow dry. With each step it creaked like styrofoam being pulled apart. The subtle undulations of the trail felt not seen.
An hour passed and our party of six landed at the bench before our final ascent. The labor of altitude combined with the cold air cuts at my lungs. The exhale escapes with a slight gurgling wheeze. Under the view of the lifts we push through the final climb and summit at the modest ski cabin. Before disappearing inside I take a moment to look back at the path behind me. The heavens glisten in spectacular fashion, the cities below bathed in their warm yellow sodium vapor light. I grab the doorknob and enter. Inside we meet three others who like use recognized the potential of the night.
We peel of our wet layers of clothing and share water and snacks. The skiers take off their skins. We all catch our breath. Then we gear up; zipping all the edges of our jackets, closing the vents to our helmets, donning our headlamps, and dropping our goggles over our brows. A nervous 'thumbs-up' and we are ready to descend. I push my fists against the snow the sled scratching forward, and I am gone.
The speed is undeniable and it grows. All I know of the world before me is what the headlamp reveals. Contours reveal themselves and continuously morph as I bound along. These are slopes of my childhood and I find myself traveling by memory instead of sight. The others are not far behind me. We drop the last of the steepest terrain and reconvene. This time I let them lead, watching their lamps snake too and fro across the frozen path. Our hoots of joy piercing the night air. One last turn past the lift and into the parking lot and our adventure is done.
'Spaces' is an essay series depicting the memory of my most treasured places. Share your favorite spaces with us in the comments.