I met her through a mutual friend; shortly before her own relationship was to be fractured by long distance and the simple fact that her partner didn’t appreciate her unique beauty. I fell for her immediately and she, after healing from her loss, returned my affections. That first winter was a honeymoon blur of happiness; the kind of relationship that runs so smooth you forget about all the failed ones that came before.
We spent long nights at Rogers Pass, huddled together as the frost laid its splintered tracks across the windshield, waiting for the sun to rise. I’d awake to the whisper of fresh Selkirk powder blowing across the hood. Excited to taste fresh snow, I’d crawl from my sleeping bag to put on cold Technicas and foul polyester. Later, after a full day of skin trails and knee deep turns, she’d keep me warm, humming her unique song on the long drive back to Fernie.
I gave her three winters of my life; that first perfect lust-filled season, the long, dry drought of 04-05 and finally 2006, the deepest winter I would ever experience. It would be a winter to remember; just her and I moving from resort to resort, weaving our way from the Coast range to the Tetons.
We’d go to Utah, Jackson Hole, Montana and B.C., lapping up the powder that spilled from Mother Nature’s overflowing cup. We’d wallow in hedonistic adventures on the road trip of a lifetime, together. And that’s when it started to go bad.
I can’t remember exactly why she started to fall apart. Maybe she’d had enough of my gypsy tendencies like so many that came before her. Maybe she was just tired. She had, after all, traveled the continent with me many times in a seemingly endless search for new experiences and bottomless snow. In my selfish pursuits I had become blind to her needs and, now, she was letting me know.
The first protests were small, almost indistinguishable from her regular speech. Early morning groans as I’d try to get her started and on our way to the ski hill. The protests grew worse. She’d fight me every step of the way, sometimes staidly refusing to go to the ski hill at all. Then early one January morning, on a lonely highway south of Golden, she finally quit for good. This time there was no protest, no fight. She just stopped on the side of the road and sat quietly. I knew then it was done.
It’s been eight months since we touched each other. There’s a new love in my life now, younger and flashier. Only time will tell if she can measure up to my little winter darling. Most of the time I am able to forget about her, but when the first snow flies I know I will think of her and the times we spent together. I have visions of her pushing through a cold Alberta night on our way to some deep, dark storm, her headlights cutting through the blackness and illuminating the road as we drive further and further, desperate to quench our lust. – Mike Berard
