Poetry

Skiing in the Main Range

Barbara Fisher

In those days you could hire a “cat”

and like a yellow tank it plunged

up and down the slopes and out

into the Main Range. We rocked around

inside, sliding down the narrow seats,

facing each other in our snow disguise.

 

Laughing, nervous, we clambered out

at the stopping place and sank

into fresh snow, struggling

to put on skis. Oh that day! Mountains

and meadows gleaming in the sun,

shadows as blue as the sky.

 

We had the ranges to ourselves

and the long run down Mount Townsend

lay before us. One by one we pushed off

and the swish of our skis was the only sound

as our trails turned the slopes

into a great expansive drawing.

 

Next morning I woke at dawn.

from a dream of an endless schuss

down Himalayan mountains.

Sometimes I was airborne,

flew lightly over crag and valley,

landed in a cloud of powder …

 

The lodge was buried in sleep.

Fresh snow had fallen in the night.

From my bunk the window framed

a piece of rosy sky, snowy ground

flushed pink, and gliding from the gums,

a red fox seeking food.