The Luckiest Scar on Earth

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Ana Maria Spagna. The Luckiest Scar on Earth

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CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

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After a few runs I gave up—it was better, by far, to hang out with Larry—and after a couple of weekends, we had a routine. He brought us sack lunches—sandwiches, fruit, carrot slices. He was more like my mother than I’d have imagined: no soggy burgers, no nacho cheese chips, definitely no two-dollar Cokes. He kept our water bottles in a backpack clipped with a carabiner to the lift line in a long row of backpacks or, later, as we got to know the place better, clipped to a limb in the woods beside one of the slower runs. We stopped to eat and drink, and then kept right on boarding. Unless we needed the bathroom. Then we headed to the lodge.

The lodge at Timberbowl had a large empty room with a faint musty smell, high ceilings and long rows of tables with benches. No high-end restaurant or bar. The rental shop looked like the back of someone’s garage. The oldest section, the log structure, had an actual fireplace and some of the ski instructors tossed half-rounds into it when it started to burn low. Kids hung their gloves and coats next to it. But we didn’t stay inside long. Larry preferred to sit at the tables outside.

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