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A Birthday Tradition
My dad was born on the 5th of July. To most people, the day after America’s birthday is a day that involves sleeping in, jumping in a body of water and grilling out. For my dad though, who’s lived in the San Juan Mountains for over 20 years, it is simply an excuse to get out of the house and go skiing.
I’m 12 years old, rubbing sleep out of my eyes as we trudge up the backside of the O Chute, a couloir I have been looking at from my living room window in Ophir, CO since before I can remember. After years of listening to stories about this descent, I am finally old enough for my dad to bring me along.
The sun is waking up with us, and our trek is marked by tracks through the mud instead of ones through snow. Patches of moss coat the ground, and I can’t help but imagine them the perfect heaven for little mountain fairies to hide within.
Yes, I conclude, there is no other explanation for the morning besides one crafted by magic. The backside of the mountain creates a quiet cradle of silence, broken by a distant bird call or the rush of a bubbling stream. Winter has fully left this side of the mountain, and by the time we get to the steepest part of the climb the gully is peppered with rocks. As much as I hate to admit it, my little legs are feeling the strain, and I can’t help but question, “How much further?”
My dad laughs, and tells me we are almost to the top. I stare at the dark rock walls and take a deep breath. We keep climbing, and when the rocks finally end we step out onto the top of a beautiful grassy platform.
The summit is almost entirely flat, the length of a football field, and covered with grass and tiny white and purple flowers. A herd of deer is grazing right in front of us. They stare as we crest the ridge, feet stomping in dismay when they realize their sanctuary has been intruded by two people on the hunt for snow.
When we get to the other side, we look down at our house below. It is so small down there, basking in morning light that is just making its way into the valley. And then, finally, the moment we have been waiting for.
Radioing down to my mom—who can watch our descent through the family binoculars in the living room— my dad puts out a call that we are dropping.
The snow isn’t good. It’s covered in holes thanks to the long, hot days of summer, and though it is not even 10 a.m., it’s melting fast. My skis stick on each turn, and the couloir gets steeper, tightening a bit before we open up our turns into large, dreamy figure eights on the apron.
The farther down we get, the more rocks and dirt grab us. Finally, the snow dissipates and the descent is over. The ski, probably lasting less than three minutes, was everything I thought it would be. I am increasingly overwhelmed with appreciation for the playground of mountains in my backyard. We click out of our skis, and my dad makes us take a selfie before we start the hike down.
I am low on energy by the time we make it home, the world starting to blur around me into a mushy time warp. As we pass, our neighbor waves when he sees us trudging out of the woods with skis strapped to our backs. My dad and I wave back with tired smiles. By the time we get inside, there is only one thing on my mind. Ice cream cake.
I mean, it is a birthday after all.