The Reunion

The mountain is not normally crowded in the days before Christmas. Even if the snow conditions are good, holiday plans at home or other issues that occupy one's time and space keep most from venturing to this small ski resort in the Berkshires until after Santa has returned to the North Pole and turned in his sled for slippers and a warm fireplace.

On this morning, two days before Christmas, fewer than half the slopes were open for skier traffic. The weather had been less than cooperative so far this season. There was no mad rush to get here, no storm that sparked the imagination with images of mounds of fresh powder. And so, the crowd was mostly limited to young skiers taking part in various race training programs and regulars who were there as often as circumstances allowed.

We have counted ourselves among those regulars for well over thirty years. Our children having made thousands upon thousands of runs here. Now the next generation of our family is beginning their own adventure.

When we first commenced this journey we made fast friends with others similarly situated. There were three or four families with whom our bond was closest. We would ski together then excitedly gather in the lodge as a group when we took a break from our version of shredding the gnar to discuss our triumphs and tribulations on the hill and in our existences far removed from this place. Hats (later helmets), gloves, jackets and other paraphernalia joining forces as we melded into one large entity exchanging small, and on occasion, larger talk. Alive and energized by our surroundings  and each other.

As good fortune would have it, all of us have remained drawn to this little hill through the years. And though most in my generation now barely wobble onto the slopes, we still feel an intimate connection to this place. Over the years, many of us have worked in various capacities here. Some still do. 

This morning, I was skiing with my two kids and my granddaughter. After a few runs, we wandered inside for what turned out to be a potato chips, hot chocolate with whipped cream and French fries break for a hungry five year old.

What was remarkable was that in this uncrowded lodge, within but a few minutes of my arrival, wholly unplanned, I bumped into members of ALL the families with whom I have been closest here. There, a fourteen year old, on his way back to his race team. Then, our good friend, heading back out to her job basically making certain the mountain runs smoothly. Next, others, who like us were chasing two generations of their family down the hill. One more, whose daughter's old ski jacket was now being worn by my granddaughter. Soon after, the parents of the fourteen year old,  coming in to babysit their four month old nephew while his mom took her first runs in a year. This new mother who three decades earlier used to fight with my son for room on the oversized chair in her parents den. And finally her dad, my good buddy who was just there to watch the world turn.

It was all one exceptionally large, exceptionally joyful coincidence. Our lives colliding as they have so often at this exact location. Our collective ski gear gathering together on the tables and the backs of our chairs offering knowing nods and smiles to fellow clothing.

I always dream of a white Christmas, slopes bulging with fresh snow and trees filled with reminders that winter is here. But in many ways, what has been most perfect for me about this time of year has little to do with how deep the powder is and everything to do with the welcome reunion of those of us who have for so long called this place our own. Echoes of rear entry boots, straight skis, Snoopy hats, laughter, a few tears, a boo boo or two and a decades long tale of passionate connection to people and place could be heard and seen this morning if you listened closely enough and squinted your eyes just so.

Today I went skiing. And bumped into my life.