On a wintery Saturday morning in the early 1980’s, I wake up, dress quickly, and drive to the local gas station/Mini-Mart. I fill the tank of my trusty Opel Manta and grab coffee and a donut. I’m back on the road before 7:30, and I head for the slopes. My destination is the same as virtually every other winter Saturday morning: Stevens Pass. I was not an accomplished skier, but I loved the chilly and exhilarating sport.
It was not a robust social time in my life. I was living in Seattle, far away from my college hometown. I had a few friends from work, as well as a handful of buddies whose wintertime social life centered around drinking at a Belltown bar and scurrying home when the first snowflakes appeared. If I wanted to ski, I needed to go alone.
I skied that day with the luxury that only solitude affords. Choices of runs, routes, speed, and places to pause and catch my breath were mine -- and mine alone – to select. Traversing the mountain in long and lazy switchbacks or heading directly downhill with turns as tight as I could muster was dictated by thoughtful decision making or instantaneous impulse.
Towards the end of the day, a light, powdery snowfall began, delightful in its delicate texture and sound muffling. The snow grew heavier, and with it, concern began pricking my consciousness. I hurried down the last ski run, released my bindings, tossed my skis onto my shoulder, and clumped my way to the parking lot as fast as I could.
It wasn’t fast enough. By the time I coaxed the cold engine of my car back to life, the snow was falling fast and furious, approaching a white-out. I knew my rear-wheel-drive auto didn’t stand a chance without chains, so I laid them out in the quickly deepening snow and installed them. With the reassuring thud of the thickly cabled chains in the background, I crept out of the parking lot and began a cautious descent.
By now the heavy snowfall was covering the earth as quickly as it was blanketing my composure. I gripped the steering wheel and inched along, joining the cavalcade of cars crawling down the mountain. The number of cars sidelined off the road, either by intention or by catastrophe, grew. My options were limited; in the pre-cell-phone era, there was no way to call for help. I was afraid to pull over and wait out the storm, worried that I would run out of gas and succumb to the cold.
I was keenly aware that I had to rely on myself as I began the final downhill descent of the day. My Manta and I slipped and slid down the icy road. We pivoted on the turns with the timidity of a neophyte skier on a bunny slope. On the steep stretches, I coaxed the car into the automotive equivalent of a snowplow. The trip that usually took two hours extended to six hours, but I arrived home oddly triumphant.
Skiing imparted enduring gifts to me: the cleansing clarity of outdoor exercise and the peaceful simplicity of solitary activity. But I owe the sport, and that old Opel Manta, for bestowing the ultimate gift: the comforting awareness of self-capability.