There & Then, p. 129-130 (The Skiing Life)
There are days, months, even years when you feel invincible, dropping down the face of Bell, Corkscrew, Lower Stein as if slipping down the stairs, edges biting, bumps disappearing in your knees. The memory of it will stay forever. You hate to have it end. You are slicing the mountain as if with a knife. Of course even on great days there is always that lone skier, oddly dressed, off to the side past the edge of the run, going down where it is steepest and the snow untouched, in absolute grace, marking each dazzling turn with a brief jab of the pole—there is always him, the skier you cannot be. Afterwards the hotness of the bath, darkness falling, the snow deep outside, couples in the street downtown, the restaurants filled, faces you know.
There are dull days on the mountain and days of indescribably joy, the runs empty, the air speckled with cold. People come to town who've been given your name, people come to dinner—the winter brings you together, somehow you make friends. You become a form of guide. Ex-hotshots on their college ski teams, confident despite years in the city and wiggling their hips in anticipation, say, "Let's go," and "You lead the way." In a minute or two they're passing by in an approximation of their old form, still ready to compete. Skiing is a little like dancing, grace seeks to be admired. "Where to?" they cry. "What next?"