Читать книгу Maine Metaphor: Experience in the Western Mountains - S. Dorman - Страница 5

Up there’s a pavilion, set on a white height for paying hungry skiers. Allen and I decide to climb this trail called White Gold. This is the day for Bust’n’Burn, the spring free style competitions in which masters and amateurs test their skills off moguls—sculpted mounds of snow taller than the men and women who dare them as they fly down-mountain. Also called “bumps.”

We begin climbing at the bottom, at the intersection with Starlight. Every footfall compacts and spreads snow. From here I look up at the balding summit—the top of White Gold. It’s a holy white head with sparse, dark, serrate crown. The slope forward is deep with snow twenty feet, plumb. One half smooth, one half pocked with moguls for the competition. It’s a steep slope, a high white way into the blue.

Up there Judges will be watching for aerial jumps and turns with style and grace. They will watch for fall line and speed, as competitors descend that high pass between woodlands.

Climbing, I look up and across at the curving white trail called Starlight. We once saw a line of torchlight, winding its way downslope there. It was dark night and I was aware of my teenage son’s presence somewhere on that twisting swarm of descending lights. I did not learn until later that there were not enough lights for him to bring one down. J.D. works in the service sector at the ski resort. And so does his older brother, Seth. Working here, they ski free.

The parade began at the summit as a clutch of yellow crosses, turning orange, unraveling down the mountain. Falling, it swirled, lights now turning magenta on the bosom of a knoll. The lights poured over the knoll in streams. Falling, crossing one another, these streams of light became streams of glowing people. People bearing light.

Down, down they came and I could see that the resort workers held their lights on long poles, balancing. Now they twirled their lights overhead in response to our sudden song: the whistle-yell-applause of watchers below. Our praises ascended to them, swelling. Praise for the light that moved, lights that flowed and were blessed with bravado. With ease and grace, expression and response.

There was movement of light on the mountain. But now, in blue daylight and cold spring, my spouse and I are toiling up the steeper slope before us, thick with slippery gritty snow. We are bundled to the teeth and weary of winter, aware that in other regions spring has already leaped, while here it cowers and creeps. I look back at Allen, doggedly making his way behind me. The brown of winter lies on him; I sense a crease in his spirit. The knowledge that he has received his notice at the satellite station, and will be laid off in two weeks, subdues him. Rounds of looking for work will begin again for my blonde and bearded spouse.

Yet, as I climb, life comes into me with greeting, vital and strong. The way is difficult: into woods, over rocks and springs, the icy branches of downed trees. We are off the ski trail to avoid deep groomed snow, an occasional skier or two. In more mechanical regions genuine customers ascend on lifts, leaving obstacles behind. From the trees we peer out at skiers swishing past on their daring descents. Here, at least, we are out of the bitter wind, sheltered, yet still aware of its freshening force.

Rocks protrude as on any Maine mountain so barren of soil. Metamorphic, glimmering with the spread sheen of mica, they catch my eye. I pocket a sample which Allen has called mica schist. Having been schooled in geology and geography, his rocks and mineral memory catalogue is better than mine. And this is my first attentive encounter with mountains not igneous—that great wholesale molten crystallization. This mica was changed by plutonic pressures but not totally remade. The pressure was enough to warp and ripple rock, enough to fuse various minerals once estranged.

Climbing on I see a ski pole stuck in icy debris and yank it out. Discovering its severed end, I will use it as a walking stick to help me get up mountain. It fathoms the ground beneath clots of woods’ debris and pockets of snow. A prop, it helps me find safe footing.

. . . Am finding that the higher we climb, the more energy we receive. . . . Look back for Allen, but turning about again discover that he is actually ahead of me, off to one side among trees nearer the ski-way. Seeing him there, ahead, I relax, feel the vitality. A shouting enthusiasm churns inside. We have made it through another Maine winter.

A chronicle of observation and experience in Maine would not be complete without problems financial, a true part of life here. It’s there in the many lives around us. Even here on the slopes: the men and women who run them, operate the machinery; the piston bully groomers who go over every inch of the terrain while skiers sleep; snow makers who ascend and descend treacherous slopes for hours in the dark; lift operators who must keep alert in the monotonous task of watching full chairs ascend; domestics who clean condos while skiers test trails; ski-tuners, cashiers, waitpersons and dishwashers, laundry workers. Everyone with seasonal jobs. They are the people who showed the light pouring downhill. Many will soon be laid off from this work, until next November or December, having to scramble for something else.

As we climb, Allen compares this cold trek to Bunyan’s Pilgrims Progress: the skiers on lifts above are on a railway to heaven, while here below we plod, clambering over obstacles. He notes the difference between our clothes and those of the skiers, bright billowy and down-filled—warmer compared to our drab working-class garb. His literary memory isn’t as good as mine. It’s not Bunyan’s work but Nathaniel Hawthorne’s fantastic takeoff on same he is thinking of. “The Celestial Railroad” satirized the false hope of industrial progress. Bunyan’s Progress, written before the advent of railroad, was the basis of Hawthorne’s piece using steam-driven mechanization to make a point about effortless living. He understood that modern progress could not carry away old curses, or bear them for us. The message was pointed, fierce as a hawthorn in the flesh.

The analogy is true, though we don’t suppose that all with money enough to ski are given to the avoidance of effort. Problems financial yield but one variety of effort—if they do exacerbate others. Looking out upon an execution of the giant slalom I might think, It looks easy enough.

But that’s what it is about Maine sometimes: making the effort look easy. Bill Bickford, a man of our town competing today, will finish second in the freestyle competition. When he’s coming down-mountain he’s not hearing the crowd. When he’s in air, he’s in his own world. The judges are watching for how he takes the turns. They want rhythm of movement, not recklessness.

It takes practice. Practicing: that’s what we’re doing here in this northern state.

When we get to the Pavilion, where mounds of sausages, sandwich rolls, and tomatoes, peppers and onions are grilling over the pits, we will be hungry from this climb but not buying. Bitter wind will soon drive us back toward the bottom; we will hike down beneath the chairlift gliding customers to the top. A child onboard will look down on us and call in her piping voice: “What are you looking for?”

And I will shout up at her, “The bottom.”