A+Long+Ride+by+James+Donovan

James Donovan Composition Bouton 4/17/09

A Long Ride

I’ve come to believe that “the trip” is just as important as the destination itself. Both can provide a freedom and independence that is unparalleled in day-to-day life. During my winter weekends, I frequently make the trip up to Cannon Mountain. I rarely ski at any other mountain, as there is always a fault to be found: Loon is too busy, Bretton Woods is too flat, Pats Peak is just plain boring, etc. Of course Cannon has its flaws, but I choose to ignore them. It takes hours to travel to and from the mountain, but when alone and isolated in the small comfortable area of my car, I get to think to myself and enjoy the time before flying down steep pitches without a care in the world. This weekend I’m lucky enough to have no commitments and take off. Finally, a chance to escape from the hectic school environment, homework piling up, not to be done until Sunday night now, put in the back of my mind. No one is joining me today, but that doesn’t bother me. I enter into the same ski day routine from past weekends; I start up the car, the engine rumbling just slightly longer than normal before starting into a steady hum. It’s too cold out, I think, as I pull out of the garage, noting the low oil temperature and how long it will take to get the heat going. It’s about 6 AM, sunlight just emerging from the tree line. I slip my CD labeled “Ski MIX” into the stereo slot in a daze, waiting for the soft sounds of the likes of Bob Marley or The Black Keys to flow through the speakers. Satisfied that I am comfortable with a cup of coffee and a bagel, I pull out of the driveway and prepare myself for the two-hour ride. Every so often I’ll come out of my driving induced trance, to find entertainment around me. The cup holders are full of junk, so I sift through it, careful not to splash its remnants on to the floor, already covered in dirt, Dunkin Donuts bags, an old shirt, and so charging cords. Why I keep the vehicle I spend so much time in dirty is an unanswerable question. The space is reflective of the state of my room; messy, but familiar. The car becomes my space to be in charge of, and I don’t have to clean it if I don’t choose too. I find a package of gum, kind of crinkled and old looking, but the single stick remaining looked fresh. I pop it in my mouth, and begin to chew. Turning my head to look at the back seats yields no greater distraction for me, so I begin to fiddle with my phone. A couple text messages here and there, but its too early for anyone to get them. I don’t know if I really want them to respond. I lose service soon anyways. Two hours later, I approach the notorious Franconia Notch, the ruggedness of the area never ceasing to impress me. The weather is a little rougher in this unsheltered rocky pass. It starts to snow as I pass the “Reduced Speed Ahead” sign entering into one lane with strong barriers. To the left and right are trees, covered in white, then vertical rock faces, rubble from falling boulders almost invisible underneath the snow’s blanket. I think about maybe coming up in the summer to hike some of these mini mountain landscapes, the views would be spectacular. And of course, minutes before the exit, the view only memorable to New Hampshirites, the spot where The Old Man in the Mountain rested, now just a normal looking cliff faces, the only evidence of change being the fresh looking granite. Finally I exit the familiar ramp, past the frozen Echo Lake, and only a few seconds later, turn into the fairly unwelcoming parking lot of a mix of gravel, mud, salt, snow, and ice. I’m guided into a space by the ever helpful, but never talkative parking attendants. I don’t try to chat to these workers, but I don’t take their mood as an insult. I know they want to be doing what I’m about to do; enjoy the day up on the fresh snow. Not wanting to rub in this fact even more, I avert my eyes form theirs, focusing rather on leaving the parking lot quickly. I hop out, and have my skis and pack on my back within a minute. The temperature had dropped as I came into the notch, but I had failed to keep track of it in my car. I could see my breath mingle in the air even with the small breaths I was taking. I realized I hadn’t put on my jacket shell, or gloves, or a hat, so I ran quickly to the lodge as my fingers started to swell, a glowing red that only subsided while by the indoor fire, only to bring more pain of the thawing process. I’m not a lodge dweller, spending maybe up to 45 minutes in the cramped wooden buildings, only to eat lunch and put on or take off my ski boots. Even with the temptation of delicious hot chocolate being served in the café, with plush coaches draped in blankets and a ski slope view, I don’t even come in to warm up. I would thin that somewhere there is snow I haven’t skied that someone else is enjoying! I never bore of the terrain; the challenging conditions of ice, wind, and glades never cease to make me a better skier. No ski patrol is pestering me about my speed as I fly in-between other skiers, my ski edges cutting into the perfectly lined corduroy grooming. I maintain my freedom to ski my style with no one in the way. The snow is soft, but compact enough to allow for sharp, rhythmic turns, pressure moving back and forth from each leg. Very little snow leaves my tails, my skis only leaving two distinct lines cutting into the previously pristine pattern. I gain speed, but never loose control, maintaining a perfect balance of fun and excitement. The wind, a well-know foe of the Cannon skier, whips around my face mercilessly, coming through the small air vents of my goggles, and making my eyes begin to tear up. I wear a handkerchief to protect my face, but I don’t even realize my breath is freezing the fabric to a solid and crunchy state until I’m back on the chairlift. The chairlifts at Cannon provide an experience just as great as the skiing. The lines are non existent, and every attendant has a conversation to start with you, that just never finishes as you board the chair head still turned in communication. These workers are fellow skiers, playing jam tunes through the old jukebox at the bottom, waving to you through their tiny hut at the top. They are in their favorite atmosphere, surrounded by the slopes they love. Unlike the parking attendants, these “laborers”, a term barely applicable, are equal to you in their excitement for the day. They embrace others’ freedom, as they have been able to find freedom in their own job. The chairlift provides respite from the physical activity, but her I can still chat and enjoy the sun that comes through the wispy clouds every so often, and most importantly plan my next attack down the mountain. There are hidden gems in Cannon that one must know how to find, and with an already small number of skiers, these places become magical. Mittersill for instance provides you with the seclusion of an old closed off ski area, protected by National State Park status. The unkempt rocky trails of the past come to life once again once there is enough snow, and are accessible through hiking from Cannon’s peak. There is no ski patrol, or many skiers willing to work for the untouched terrain, but Cannon has learned to embrace its existence and lets skiers go. These undiscovered pleasures make the trip up worth it, creating remarkable feelings of independence. Being alone and pushing harder turns while being able to take in a magnificent view of northern New Hampshire provides me with a definition of freedom. This freedom is what I seek, and what I enjoy experiencing. But it’s incomplete with out the journey to appreciate it, and what I’m able to do myself as an individual. And this reason will make me come next weekend, and the weekend after that, as much a possible. Cannon is my mountain, and I find it hard to compare the rest of my winter experiences to it.