“How many months?!”
The woman shouting from across a moraine left a distinct air of expectation in the question—no doubt she had heard of year-rounders racking up unbroken ski streaks measured by the score.
“One!” I shouted back.
She looked confused. Why would someone be up here with skis this time of year if not to tick the September box in a chain of some unbroken Sisyphean task?
I didn’t ski in August this year. This was not so much a deliberate decision, just a practicality of summer. The ski season ended; there were better things to do. So, back on skis just in time for low tide here at the end of summer, I have managed to find myself joining in all the stupidity of year-round skiing without any of the glory.
But wait, isn’t ski season just a state of mind? Maybe it is next year? The early
bird catches the worm! The mornings smell like autumn, and the leaves are changing. Termination dust showed up on the high peaks a couple of weeks ago—a sure sign the season has changed, right? I could be an early bird.
Do you have new batteries in your beacon? Have you reglued your skins and patched the holes in your favorite jacket? These provide signposts on the way to next year. Maybe a ski season ultimately belies definition: you know it when you ski it.
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