Recently published in the 2010 edition of the Snowboard Canada Women’s Annual, this short story by my newly-anointed wife is one of my favourite pieces of her writing. I could rant at length at the pathetic state of writing in the snowboard industry but this is not the place. Instead I will just say how refreshing it is to see well-crafted, honest writing that speaks to the spirit of the sport we love and not to the hype machine that grows out of it like a stylishly-dressed and over-branded cancer. Then again, I am biased. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do. – Mike Berard
Leveled by a compulsive carpenter and as yellow as the liquid surrounding his infallible bubble, the prairies are submissive. The mountain peaks are visible in the distance, revealing more of themselves with each section of the asphalt’s broken line. Though burdened by a garage sale worth of clothing and equipment, her car moves forward with a loyal purr. The clouds along the horizon are blue and swollen. Crows hop and stare from the roadside, perhaps made wise by millions more years of experience. “We were here before you and would be here after.” The air is dry and feels electric.
Born and raised in an ever-expanding sprawl of concrete and glass, her love of the mountains is rooted in weekend trips and childhood awe; sitting in the back seat of a station wagon, glancing away from the profile of her parents’ faces illuminated by the dashboard lights, way up through the moonlit sky and squinting to make out their jagged silhouette. Even when the ominous outline disappeared into blackness she could feel the imposition of their size, like monsters quiet and still in the darkness, not wishing to be found.
She tries to imagine the future as if possibilities are isolated, but has been unsure enough to makes quizzical family members squirm with discomfort. How do you explain to the uninitiated that not knowing how some things will turn out is what makes them worth doing? Taking the disapproval of others as an affirmation, her response was simply an unconstrained smile, each Cheshire tooth blazing.
She has always wanted to move to a mountain town, but the pressures we are often burdened with at far too early an age were present, and investing time into the future often requires postponing desire. Instead of following the clichéd path of self-discovery at a younger age, she was renewed by the sensation of having paid her dues. As her car rolls slowly over the foothills, joy is foremost in her mind.
She anxiously imagines her newfound priorities; the moments she has only been able to experience a few days at a time or worse, vicariously. Powder days and early mornings. The energy of a town that is rooted in pure, unabashed elation. Pubs overflowing with gregarious faces that glow with the childlike excitement of a day spent the best way they know how. Possibility. Windburn. Beers chilled in snow banks. The exchange of mental fatigue for physical exhaustion. She imagines herself seeking out the fertile soil beneath a canopy of trees, sheltered at the foot of something permanent and grand. The ideal place to strengthen.
She has been planning and willing this move for years. She sinks into her seat and resigns her mind to feelings of hope and liberation, for she knows that though she pictures herself driving towards tomorrow in a very literal way, all time hereafter will, in truth, recede like the horizon in relation to the speed at which she approaches it. - Allie Jenkinson
Follow Allie Jenkinson on Twitter.
{ 2 trackbacks }