Look up to the grinding wheel of industry and blue sky carrying us to the summit. Thin wood skis, to short and light, to the wide tongue of a snowboard. A child with skis in a "v," a teen races past, a man expertly airborne in a jump, a father hoists his child on the lift, grandparents sashay down on skis with knees tight. Back to the wheel and pulley and blue sky; to the turn of time, the roll of the northeast. Ride up with feet swinging and let the mountain surprise you. Some years you will surprise it: Not the child but the teen, not the teen but the jumping man, the parent strapped to child, the grandparent sashaying down, back to the wheel that takes us up.
By Michele Burke
Photo: Eric Fitzgerald