By Jeff Hampton
Riding the lifts is a part of snow skiing that most people would rather skip. While it is the only practical way to get to the top of the mountain, it takes valuable time away from the thrill of going down the mountain.
Still, I get an odd sort of pleasure from riding the lifts. Aside from the chance to catch my breath, adjust my equipment, munch on a candy bar and enjoy the view, it provides an interesting perspective on the human family. For eight to 12 minutes, you dangle in the air with complete strangers, each with a story. Sometimes you’re drawn into their story through casual conversation, and other times you just sit and listen. The stories are happy and sad, serious and petty, just like yours and mine.
In 2000 while skiing at Winter Park, Colorado, I found myself engaged in a few of these stories. On one ride up the mountain, I sat next to a man of indefinable age who was giddy with enthusiasm for the beautiful weather and the day’s promise of adventure.
“Up here for the weekend?” I asked.
“No, I’m retired. We worked hard and then we moved up here to live the good life. Now my wife’s upset with me ’cause she can’t keep me off the mountain. It’s a tough life, but somebody’s gotta’ do it!” he laughed. (I made a mental note to myself: start making plans now.)
Then there was the young mother who retired for just a day. She had dropped her son off at school in Denver and then slipped away for a day of solitude.
“He tried to play sick so he could stay home,” she said, “but I told him if he was sick I’d have to leave him with his nanny, ‘because Mommy isn’t staying home today; Mommy is going skiing.’ So he went to school and here I am.” (Good for her!)
On another ride, I listened quietly as a young man told a business associate how his father had been devastated by melanoma at age 47.
“He tried to be brave and kept telling us that it was nothing to worry about, but he lost 100 pounds and he just couldn’t fight it,” he said. “He loved to ski. I really miss him.” (I couldn’t help but think about my brother who has faced melanoma twice. Has it gone away for good, I wondered?)
A couple compared notes on the emotional state of a friend who was recently divorced. “She’s going to church a lot, and I think it’s really helping her,” said one to the other. “She seems to be getting a lot of strength from that.” (I found myself nodding.)
Then there were sisters worrying aloud to a friend about their ailing grandfather. “Mom’s trying to get Grandpa into housing near us, but I’m not sure he’ll live long enough to make the trip,” one said.
I settled onto the end of a lift seat with another trio of women who talked and laughed nonstop about husbands, children and jobs.
“Let’s make the most of this day,” one said enthusiastically. “This is my last trip up here for awhile.”
“Why’s that?” asked another.
“My doctor says I shouldn’t ski after 21 weeks, and I’m getting close,” she said. (Skiing for two?)
A man and a woman with thick brogues reminisced about the highlands of Ireland as they viewed the snow-covered landscape. They were delighted to be in the Colorado Rockies, but it was evident they missed the hills and craggy glens of their homeland. (It’s universal: There’s no place like home.)
Then there were three young hotshots, just barely out of college, who had life by the tail as they traveled the world closing big financial deals.
“The guys in accounting are busting my chops,” complained one of them. “Last time I went to Amsterdam, I turned in a $7,000 expense report, and now they’re auditing me for the $17 I spent at the airport.”
His comrades grumbled in agreement, obviously victims of similar inquests. (Good grief!)
I sat between a pair of teenage snowboarders who looked every bit the tough, indifferent, grunged-out punks. But I listened with amazement as their bravado mellowed into an affectionate chat about a friend who was absent. “Blevins is really missing a good one,” they said. “It’s not going to be as fun without him.” (The past 20 years have been lacking without John, I thought. He’s “missed some good ones.”)
And finally there was the polite high school student who rode with me to the windswept top of Parsenn Bowl.
“Where you from?” he asked.
“Dallas. How ’bout you?”
“Littleton.”
I nodded.
“When someone says Littleton,” he said, “everyone just automatically thinks you go to Columbine, but that’s not the only school there.”
“Where do you go?” I asked.
“Columbine,” he admitted quietly.
“You’ve been through a lot,” I said.
“Yes, we have, but we’ve really pulled together and we’re doing a lot in the community now. We’re trying to show our appreciation for all the support everyone has given us. It’s really been good.”
As we came to top of the lift and prepared to slide off, he said, “Have a great day!”
“You too,” I shouted as we slid onto the snow and parted ways.
The wind whipped across the 12,000-foot peak with a chill factor reported at -30 F. But I hardly noticed, warmed by a few moments with a fellow traveler.
Copyright © Jeff Hampton 2010