As a 12/13-year old scout, I had a young, single scoutmaster who spent every waking weekend assaulting peaks in the Washington Cascades. He relished taking naive twelve and thirteen year old’s with him on a Friday night hike-in for a Saturday summit attempt. If things went *really* well, we might “die screaming.” McClellan Butte. Annette Lake. Dorothy Lake. Mt. Stewart. Kaleetan Peak. Stevens to Snoqualmie pass. A few others I can’t remember. Mostly, we got cold and drenched. Eventually, after a few miserable weekends sleeping in puddles, we learned how to stay dry at night. The last tent occupants to emerge from their tents were summarily awakened with a close-proximity M80, to the giggles of the those who’d learned by previous experience to get up with the sun.
My sophomore year in highschool, a girlfriend asked me if I wanted to go skiing. I borrowed a friend’s gear. One or two trips down the bunny hill with Suzy on Friday evening under the lights at Snoqualmie Pass and I was hooked, soaked Levi’s and all. My penchant for throwing pottery at the highschool and selling it at the annual sale paid for my first set of skis and boots. Snow covered mountains replaced football and weightlifting, and Suzy for that matter.
I was accepted to attend BYU in Provo after highschool. Great academic program. Yeah that’s it: Academics. What? 30 minutes from Sundance and 60 minutes from Snowbird and Alta. What a coincidence! My freshman year ended with about 60 punched ski passes, and a deep dark winter tan from my neck up.
I was Spring skiing in at Mt. Hood in June when my mission call to Switzerland arrived. A mixed blessing. Switzerland in real life is better than any postcard of Switzerland you’ve ever seen. Littered with tram covered mountains and world-renowned ski venues, I was sadly prohibited from donning a pair of skis during my time there due to costs and insurance risks. But I visited every mountain and resort I could: Diavolezza. Gornergrat. Zermatt. St. Moritz. Pilatus. Männlichen. Titlis. Säntis. Schilthorn. Kleine Scheidegg. Wengen. Aletschgletscher. The list goes on.
Each time my churchly-duties compelled me to visit a different far-away city, I’d look at the map to see which mountain pass I had not yet traversed that might plausibly be “on the way”. Turns out, on a map, everything’s “on the way.” Moses went up into a mountain to speak with God. The Savior Himself often retired to the mountains to pray. The mountains are special, even from the driver seat of a 1.3 litre Opel Corsa. I came home with a set of Volkl P9 slalom skis (I promptly bent them the first season in Snowbird’s moguls.) BYU requires a minimum of 128 credits to graduate. I had 128.5 credits. The extra half credit? ...a ski class.
The Hometime series season where they build a big beautiful log cabin aired the year after college graduation. (Oh, yes. You will be mine. Gotta get me one of those.) When I met Katie a few years later, I had plans for a log home in the mountains. She agreed, and we set out dreaming...and raising a family and working long hours in the software industry.
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