Honestly, I have been avoiding writing this blogpsot like the plague. Instead of sneaking in ski days all through June, this season barely made it to Memorial Day. I am not complaining about the lack of snow or the nasty sunburn from which I am suffering today, but I am still having difficulty accepting the end. We have known for quite some time that the snowmelt has been about six weeks ahead of schedule, but it didn't really hit me until is past weekend when I went to say a final farewell to the tiny unskiable patch that was left at the very bottom of Superstar (guess those big fan guns work pretty well).
With Vespi by my side, we ran almost desperately up to this tiny little unskiable patch and I unceremoniously collapsed to my knees. Not feeling in control of myeslf, I hesistantly placed my right palm directly onto the snow and my eyes closed to hold back everything that had been bottled up inside me. I took a deep breathe...and then another. Like Spock trying a mind meld, I reached my soul deeper into the snow. I was trying to feel myself skiing just by coming into contact with what was left of another ski season. Lost in the moment, I could hear the laughter of skiers and snowboarders, the sounds of schussing and gliding surrounded me.
And then I opened my eyes.
And I could feel the hot spring sun beating down on my exposed shoulders. There would be no silly wandering around the mountain looking for leftover patches this spring. I was going to say goodbye first. I was not going to let the mountain lead me along like some lovesick teenage girl. I didn't need winter to define every waking moment of my life. I was retaking control of my life before I completely lost my inner self to the mountain. My days would no longer be defined by the texture of the snow or the amount of it. Slowly, deliberately, I stood up, turned around and without looking over my shoulder even once, walked away.
My romance with winter was over.
Now...where is my paddle?