Douglas Fir

Crossing Easter Bowl, I’m immersed in an achromatic tank of fog and snow. The going is tentative and I let gravity pull me along a slightly curved, edgy line. In this weather, on this treeless slope, there is no visual reference and most people’s spatial awareness is about 90% disabled. In my case, a mild vestibular disorder makes things worse. Behind the goggle lens, all I see are the familiar, protozoan specks of debris floating around somewhere in my eyeball that sometimes move across the white page of my bedtime reading. When I reach a place where drifted snow has blocked the ski track,  I’m unaware that my gentle traverse has stopped until I rock forward and nearly topple over. The wind is driving snow onto the right side of my face. Lacking sight, I try to recruit a better sense, and the stinging on my cheek is good feedback.  I adjust and push off again. Ski poles like whiskers guide me toward a hard edge of immense Douglas Firs.