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The Spokesman-Review Newspaper
Spokane, Washington  Est. May 19, 1883

Home Planet: Skier follows moonlit trail to clarity

Cheryl-Anne Millsap The Spokesman-Review

He drove up the winding road to Mount Spokane as others were making their way down. Most cars were filled with families heading home after a day on the slopes, children talking and fogging up the windows. Or, couples on their way home to make dinner, to cook and eat companionably close in the kitchen.

He parked the truck at the lodge and pulled his skis out of the back. The late afternoon sun was fading and the air was getting colder as he gripped the poles and moved onto the trail.

In the beginning the path was tough, marked and gouged by the skis of the people who had spent the day in the park. But as he moved on, past the point where the crowds had been, he found it easier going.

One pole down, one ski forward. Another pole down, the other ski forward. Again and again and again.

His breath hung in the air, caught in the deepening twilight. He became the rhythm, the push and pull that carried him deeper into the woods. He felt the strong beating of his heart. His long arms and legs moved steadily, toughened muscles carrying him forward smoothly and efficiently.

When the moon rose, big and golden, hanging impossibly close to the horizon, he watched as the world around him transformed, fading into silver and black. Tall trees on either side of the trail loomed over him. The snow brought everything into relief and he could see deep into the forest.

For the first time in a long while he was alone with his thoughts. Moving through a silent landscape, past the shortcuts that would take him back to the lodge faster, he glided over soft snow and pushed on toward Quartz Mountain. While his body worked his mind did its own labor. And he gave himself over to the things he’d been keeping at bay.

He thought about her and what she’d said. He thought about the girls, about his father and his mother. He thought about work and school and the future. He thought about the past. He pondered broken promises and lessons learned. He let memories hang in the air around him, caught and crystallized in each breath.

The miles and the hours passed and still he pushed on. And deep in the night, when he had finally made it back to the point where he started, when he’d stored his skis in the back of his truck and was driving back down the mountain, his arms and legs were heavy, wearied by the work they’d done.

But he was a different man. Somewhere along the way, deep in a place where moonlight chased away shadows; in the benison of silence and solitude, he’d cast off the extra ballast he’d been carrying.

Both hands on the wheel, he studied the dark road ahead, at the safe path illuminated by his own light, and made his way home.