It was a cold day, but the skiing was good.
We called deep powder snorkeling—gliding through it, weightless, breath held, speed lifting you just enough to float.
We met them in the lift line. Everyone was there—people laughing, people watching the mountain, others just waiting for the next run. Through goggles and hats I saw her hair move in the wind.
They were a group of three. We were too.
I stood alone.
She stepped back and stood next to me, close enough that it didn’t need explaining. She turned, smiled. A gust of wind blew ice crystals into her face and she laughed. For a moment, she was very beautiful. And I knew she saw me looking.
Snow had fallen all night. Big, quiet flakes still drifted down around us.
The lift scooped us up and carried us into the air.
“Where’s your group headed?” I asked.
“South Bowl,” she said. “The powder’s insane today. Hardly any tracks.”
She paused. “There’s a reason for everything. I’m glad we met.”
She pulled off her goggles, then her hat, gathering her hair back. I don’t know if it was the light or the moment, but I remember thinking I’d never seen anyone more beautiful. She didn’t look away.
At the top, I slid slightly right. She slid slightly left. Then we pointed our skis downhill together.
At the flat, where decisions are made, her group said they were heading for Southern Exposure.
“I’m going with him,” she said, slipping her arm around my waist.
We traversed into South Bowl. Powder covered old tracks, soft and untouched.
She stopped, pulled off her goggles, and kissed me—quick and warm against my cold, chapped lips.
“What was that for?” I asked.
“That was for you.”
We skied, carving wide, mirrored arcs—two halves of a figure eight etched into the mountain. We stopped on a knoll where the snow was waist-deep. I reached for her. We kissed again, longer this time, the world hushed around us.
I remember thinking: This is who I’ve been waiting to meet.
We skied to the bottom. The lift line was gone. One more run.
The chair carried us up through thick gray snow. We were alone as far as I could see. The wind rocked us gently.
She looked at me and said, “If we weren’t out here in the cold, I’d make love to you all night.”
I didn’t know if that was a promise or a passing thought. I didn’t ask.
We kissed until the lift released us.
At the top, fresh snow had already softened our tracks. She wiped her goggles, smiled once more, and we skied down.
At the base, she went inside to find her group. She turned once, waved, and disappeared.
I never learned her name.
I drove home with a hollow feeling I didn’t have words for. I peeled off wet clothes, sat by the fire, and watched sparks rise into the dark.
Twenty-five years passed.
My wife left. I skied alone.
It was a quiet Monday morning when a woman stepped beside me to fill the chair. She smiled.
I knew.
She lifted her goggles and said,
“We have a lot of love to make up.”