I knew what the trees were like on Sunday, but there were kids with me, who wanted to float and shred. The light wasn't right. It didn't look possible to return, but then things turned. One of the turns had to do with light. And then the fever broke. I held firm to my schedule down below. And then my orders arrived.

Afternoon side light. Low. Sunshine. Cold, too. I tried to get as close as I could, but I had to stay on skis. Three feet of fresh snow would have taken me deep. Waist deep. I used every memory chip in my backpack. There was so much sun I couldn't see what I was doing, what the composition was like. All guess work. A blind shoot. Weather held and it remained cold.

Once in a while I'd glimpse a frozen drop. Is there such a thing? Frozen drop? I don't think so. About 90 minutes. Just out of bounds. A duck under the ropes. Three locations. Three stops, I mean. No time to think. The light changing too fast.

Then the skis had a turn. They were faster than I was ready for. I wasn't given a choice.

When the lifts closed, just before four, light changing by the minute, a former student, from the alternative school in the mid 1970s, father, grandfather, pilgrim, steps towards me, and we ride the lift together and ski out.

These images, selected too fast, gives an idea, I hope, of what it was.

Jim Bodeen
4 February 2016

No comments:

Post a Comment