Postcard from Montana By Jamie Kirkpatick

I’m sitting in front of a cozy fire. Everyone else is out on the mountain, either skiing or snowboarding. It’s cold and the visibility is limited, probably not more than forty or fifty feet.

There is fresh snow on the ground and it’s the weekend, so the lift lines are long and the slopes are crazy-crowded. Did I mention that I’m in the great room of a rustic ski lodge, sitting in front of a crackling fire? Who do you think is happier?

We arrived three days ago—26 of us, spread over three generations. flying here (Whitefish, Montana) from three different airports. I’m the only non-skier, so my luggage was light. There was some concern about this: what would a non-skier do at a ski resort? But I wasn’t the slightest bit worried: I have a good book to read, this postcard to write, and hours of quiet time to chip away at the granite mountain of my next novel. So am I worried? Bored? Did I mention that I’m in a warm lodge with a cup of cocoa in front of a dreamy fire? Hours and hours of peas and carrots and plenty to observe. A writer’s delight!

Skiers are a breed apart. Who else would choose to don layer upon layer of designer  outerwear, buy a lot of expensive safety gear, wear clunky boots that make walking like a zombie difficult if not downright impossible (heel/clunk, toe/clunk), buy lift tickets that cost a king’s ransom, all so they can stand in line for an hour just to make a twenty-minute run back down the mountain with a thousand other skiers and boarders whizzing by at Beltway speed? And then take everything off in order to answer nature’s call? Not me, that’s for sure. I’m just fine in this big leather chair, my stocking feet pointed toward the fire, thinking about what to eat for lunch.

There are a few other people hanging out in front of the fire. They’re talking about sore hip-flexers, strained quads, sore necks, and all manner of other ailments, I’ve yet to see to a sling or a cast, but doubtless that will come. Makes me feel guilty to get up and refresh my cocoa.

Now I have to admit that I, too, am slightly under the winter weather. Airplanes are notorious petri dishes, and yesterday I woke up sneezing and coughing to beat the band. But my wife is a doctor’s daughter who knows everything there is to know about cures and remedies so she sprang into action and now I have a hospital supply room of full of medicines designed to render me hale and healthy overnight. We’ll see about that. In the meantime, I can sit here in front of my foot-warming fire, convincing myself that self care is not the slightest bit selfish.

This is old country. During the ice ages, glaciers pushed tons and tons of alluvial soil down from Canada through passes in the mountains, carving out deep lakes, making fertile valleys. Megafauna and wildlife flourished, bringing hunting-gathering people who lived here peacefully for millennia upon millennia until someone back East decided that what this valley really needed was a rail line snaking its way through the mountain passes, linking Chicago and San Francisco. The rest, as we know, is a sad history.

I throw another log on the fire. It roars back to life, popping, snapping, singing its warming song. Somewhere outside, my wife and her skiing family are doing what skiers love to do. I’m fine right here, thank you very much, comfortable, warm, and counting my blessings.

I’ll be right back.

 

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His new novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon.