There’s more to winter than the silence of falling snow. It starts with a boom. A deafening, house-shaking rumble that makes the dog seek refuge behind the couch. I roll over and pull back the curtains. Ice on the window obstructs my view, but I can see that it’s dark and moody and that every house on the block is white. Air seeps in from the frozen window and pushes me back under the blankets. As I reach over and switch off the alarm, another charge is detonated. The patrollers are busy.
The sound of metal scraping asphalt penetrates the morning. My roommate is up early again; making sure the driveway stays clear in his attempt to win the war over winter. Forty-five minutes later, as I shuffle through new snow to load my gear in the car, I hear the abrasive grind of the snowplow. The clank of chains on the heavy machine, the roar of the diesel engine, the scatter of the gravel truck following behind, they’re all signs: if I don’t move fast, fresh tracks will soon degenerate into sloppy seconds left behind by those already en route to the hill. I wince as the plow deposits a three-foot furrow of icy gravel at the foot of the driveway.
Cold sweat on the shovel handle, heavy breathing, and a thin wheeze—the curse of asthma—an unwanted gift from my mother. The car exhaust gathers around me in a blue cloud, engine sputtering and choking on the frigid air. I finally jump in, throw it in reverse and pin it. The oil pan grates against the gravelly snow bank and the car lurches violently as it forces its way onto the patchy asphalt. I push the shifter to “D” and with all four cylinders running on high the race is on. A Spokane radio station crackles through the cheap speakers, some right-wing pundit expressing his distaste for artistic freedoms. Static dominates the dial as I search frantically for musical fuel. Vague signals channeling in…fading out…lyrics from so long ago “I remember buffalo…It would seem to me I remember…every single fucking thing I know” The poetry of the Tragically Hip fills the car, unfiltered and uncensored by FCC guidelines. I obnoxiously weave and push my way through traffic, run the yellow, cross the bridge, no time for hitchhikers today. I feel my turns slipping away with every mile. Finally, the sign for the resort comes into view.
The sound of metal edges on corduroy is muffled by 8 inches of blower on top. I push hard through the snow, skating strong on the traverse above the RV Park and down to the Timber chair just in time to hear the bullwheel creak to life. The line-up, as expected, is huge. I head for the singles line, impatient and anxious to bypass these tourists and their downloadable ring tones. I scan the line, looking desperately for someone I know. A sea of confused faces looks back at me…turistas. My luck runs out as I approach the load line next to a few strangers on rentals. I snuggle uncomfortably into the quad alongside two Montanans and an accountant from Seattle. Below me, I hear the first of the lift-riders enjoying the bounty of a 5 am start. Whoops, hollers and cheers reverberate in my ears and I feel that weak feeling of anticipation rising up from my legs. The top lift station is fast approaching; tips up like the sign says and pushing off at the unload line, weaving through the hordes who didn’t buckle up on the lift. I thread my way through the impatient ones who drop in too soon, thirsty to taste the spoils of Fernie’s legendary powder.
At the end of the cat track I push hard one last time to carry me up and over the ridge into the trees. And there, all sound fades away. It’s just me, alone with the trees. I could think about all that lies ahead; the day I’m about to experience, the choked line-up that awaits me at the bottom, the freshies I’m missing by enjoying this single moment of peace. But I don’t. I savour the quiet and the solitude. A gentle breeze releases the weight of snow from a tired Douglas fir, scattering the crystals around me as I push off into the silence. – Mike Berard