It’s a rite of spring for skiers everywhere. Long after the lifts have shut
down for the season, even as the valleys fill with summer haze, we look for
sheltered fingers of sun-cupped snow high up near some shady crag. We hike,
sometimes for hours, for one last run.
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Finally, atop a remote ridgeline or a familiar backyard peak, we turn and face
down the hill, giving ourselves over to the inevitable. Soon – all too soon
– winter is but a memory; a ragged patch of fading white, melting into a field
of glacier lilies and lupines.
That last run of the season is important. It sustains skiers through the summer
doldrums, making bearable those long, hot days when it seems as though it may
never snow again.
I suppose that’s why Tarja Lisa and I were climbing that cirque well before
the sun came up on that sunny July morning nearly 20 years ago. We were trying
to make our season last forever.
Our headlights cast egg-shaped blobs of light onto the trail and the cold snow
crunched and squeaked underfoot.
“We should have stayed in the hut and made another pot of coffee,” I grumbled,
punching my crampons into the pitch.
“Yes, and you could have cooked up some your world-famous oatmeal,” she countered,
adding a silvery laugh. “Mmmmm – let’s go back!”
But we kept climbing, in rhythm and maintaining a steady pace.
On the mountain, we complemented each other. I’d look up at a rock wall or
a skiable face and see a maze of unfulfilled possibilities. Tarja Lisa would
study the same pitch, find the crux, and intuitively sense the most creative
and elegant solution. As a team, we managed routes that neither of us would
have attempted otherwise – even with more experienced partners.
But our latest ski adventure, on a peak we both had coveted for some time,
was to be our last.
We reached the base of the headwall just as the first rays of the sun sent
a shimmering wave of light dancing across the Firnspiegel – a thin, mirror-like
crust of ice on the surface of the glacier. As we eased through the transition
and onto the steeper slope, each step loosed myriad shards, sending them skittering
and tinkling down the slope like broken champagne glasses on a kitchen floor.
Tarja Lisa was from a tiny town in Finland, near the Arctic Circle. She had
just finished her studies at the university in Munich and was trying to decide
whether she wanted to return home to take over her dad’s medical practice.
The two of we were trying to decide where to go from there – we had spent nearly
every free moment during the previous three years exploring the mountains together,
but real life was about to intrude on our alpine fantasy.
But for the moment, we were on the mountain, in love with each other and with
life in general. She took the lead on the final pitch, sinking her axe deeply
into the crust with each confident step toward the peak.
As always, the climb became a moving meditation. Tuned in to the tiniest details
of the snow wall in front of me, I was able to let go of all the other clutter
in my mind. Soon, we reached the summit and signed the register, unshouldered
our packs and sat down on a rib of rock to bask in the morning warmth.
We’d been talking about this mountain for a couple of years, admiring pictures
of its sharp outlines and snow-covered flanks in mountaineering magazines. But
now that we were at the summit, all of a sudden there was no time to waste.
The snow was corning up perfectly, and we were looking forward to a descent
of several thousand vertical feet. We checked our gear, tightened our boot buckles
and prepared to point ’em.
“After you,” Tarja Lisa said with a smile and a mock bow. I looked down the
steep face and slid into a shallow traverse to test the snow.
“It’s great,” I yelled back up to her. “Why don’t you go for it?”
She needed no further urging. Nudging over the edge of the wind lip, she set
off a tiny sluff with a slight flick of her skis and began inscribing a set
of smooth, precise turns into the clean, white plane.
I watched for a moment, admiring her fluid style, then let the tips of my
skis caress the snow and drift slowly into the fall line. I tried to match Tarja
turn for turn, laying my tracks as close as possible to her sensual arcs.
Looking back, it seems a paradox. Even as I experienced near-perfection and
utter grace, feeling perfectly in synch with the mountain and my partner, I
knew that, in the long run, it wasn’t meant to be between us.
I returned to Munich to finish school and Tarja Lisa moved back to her home
town. For a time, we exchanged intense, passionate letters, vowing to reconnect
for another mountain trip. It never happened and eventually the correspondence
died, leaving only the memory of a perfect last run.