Oldsters and Skiing

Runs on Highlands.

Sometimes all I can hope for in a day is just one piece of information that will help guide me through the next. These quizzical pieces of information can come in all shapes and sizes, and the messages can differ; however, their effect on my psyche remains constant. They will always and inexorably ready me for another day.

Today I had my moment—the time when I received a tiny but not inconsequential bit of information—at the end of my day. I had spent the morning and early afternoon skiing with friends. A northern wind had brought with it 10 inches of light, fluffy, snow the previous night, and the mountains just north of Carbondale held blankets of the white stuff. Riding northbound with two stalwart climbers and skiers from the valley truthfully made me nervous—their skill at both sports being well beyond mine—but we passed the 40-minute drive discussing various ways in which you can climb the crux of a specific route on the limestone of Rifle Canyon.