Like a projector bulb breaking in a movie theatre, COVID-19 was a deeply frustrating interruption to the plot of winter. On snow we prepare for unexpected interruptions like dry spells, injuries, and persistent weak layers. But this… this feels like a sucker punch.
A rough way I measure the radness of a season is by counting the number of nights spent in a tent on snow. In recent seasons my stats were already low due to a chronic knee injury, so I had high hopes for 2020 as the comeback season. But my stats kept falling:
2019 = 1
2020 = 0
If I take the broader view I can see beautiful experiences the COVID-19 interruption brought into life. Many of us have found newness, slower speeds, and simple pleasures.
But there’s still a spring skiing shaped hole left in my heart.
I never sprayed a friend on a slush puddle. I never applied sunscreen at noon hoping to get away with it and still get scorched. I never woke up at 2 AM to chase sunrise as the days grew longer.
I refuse to end on cliches of making lemonade, counting blessings, or to give unsolicited advice for a home bodyweight workout. I’m writing to grieve the loss of a favorite part of a ski season.
I’m sad it left. And that sadness is okay.