Last week, after two weeks of procrastination, I made time to head out to Tussey Mountain, throw on my skis and live a little. It was sparked recently when I caught up with a childhood friend who asked if I’d been out to Tussey Mountain this winter. Regretfully, I hadn’t.
Pete is a kindred skiing spirit, and we grew up skiing together at Tussey Mountain. On a ski trip to Colorado years ago, we were the guys who got up early, packed sandwiches and spent every last minute flying through the sun and snow.
So after his question I resolved to get out to Tussey Mountain.
Riding up the chairlift, I looked over at the T-bar lift that was not running. It was once the only way up the hill. It was always ripe for mayhem if the person in front of you fell and slid backwards down the hill.
For children born in the late 1960s and early 1970s Tussey Mountain in the 1980s was a much different place. Atop the mountain at night, you saw nothing but darkness along the road out to Route 322. The Bear Meadows homes were years from becoming reality.
On a summer night by the lake at the base of the mountain the night sky’s canvas became a painting of stars in a dark sky. And by that small lake it was spectacular looking back across the valley toward State College as the sun dropped below the horizon. Before the fun center was built, there was no one around.
As a kid, a paper route helped pay for my skis and a season pass at Tussey Mountain. Winter school days became a rush to get home, get homework done and find a way to get some skiing in before bedtime.
That humble hometown hill planted the roots of a passion. Skiing gives us a lifetime of challenging ourselves and testing our limits. That’s always been the draw.
But one of the functions of age is that we grow hesitant, ever more wary of dangers or pitfalls in life. But then we strap on a pair of skis, the adrenaline kicks in and we push the limits.
Those days skiing on our hometown hill led to trips north and west to some incredible mountains. Meeting new people in new places often led to the questions about one’s hometown hill. And with pride I’d recount tales of youthful turns pushing to get down the hill in time for that last T-bar or lift up the hill before they closed.
Last week it did not matter what mountain it was or how old I’ve grown. It was a day to breathe in the air, carve semi-graceful arcs through the snow and feel the rush of speedy skis gliding across the snow. There was something special about familiar terrain, the slopes of an old friend.
Age and responsibilities tend to rob all of us of time. We find excuses and expanding workloads to conspire to prevent moments of escape. A society that demands we always concentrate on the future can skew our focus.
But there comes a time when we should relish moments of nostalgia. We can find ourselves consciously at one point on a continuum of our history, even as second by second the future becomes the past.
A few years ago, with an incredible group at Teleos Leaders, we were doing an exercise plotting our major life events on a timeline. For almost everyone in there, people who were driven, successful and focused on every next big challenge in their lives, it was a bit jolting. We so often forget to understand how we got here, and how our own journey had shaped us.
That exercise forced us to look inward and understand our place on that timeline. How much was ahead on that timeline was unknown. We all walked away with a new understanding.
Last week, for just an afternoon skiing alone at an old familiar place, I found time to revisit and touch the history of so many things. So many memories reside on that hill. I’m glad I found that time.
The great skiing filmmaker Warren Miller often challenged his viewers to get out and ski: “If you don’t go this winter, you’ll be at least a year older when you do.” Indeed, tomorrow is promised to no one.
So, on the last run of my day at Tussey Mountain, I remembered those words, paused to look at the snow, slopes and the blue sky. A moment of satori came over me. I turned my skis downhill and felt the speed increase as I skied toward the bottom. For one afternoon my life timeline came alive, merging places and memories decades in the past, riding free like a kid again.
