Skiing Backwards by Writer in Residence, Kate Rose

You can only leave the Sisyphus Mountains by skiing. That’s how you go from goatherd to world champion. You have plenty of snow and time to practice, since kids don’t go to school past third grade. There is just no way to get there, and not enough people in each snowed-in hamlet, let alone people who know how to read. But with the essential ingredients - snow, time, and determination to ski past poverty and boredom, these pointy volcanic peaks have produced quite a few champs.

You are close to the sky, so you can see the stars well. But we didn’t come for the stars, nor were we expecting the tourist trap we encountered. A surreal winter playground, there were women and men dressed like desert nomads, walking up the hill and sledding down. If timid about the slopes, you could hire someone to ski backwards holding your hands. Skiing backwards is no problem for them; that’s how good they are.

The antiquated ski lodge, a copy from Switzerland of the 1940s, held back in time by the inevitable lack of progress being snowed-in for months brings,was overpriced. I hadn’t come for this. I told him that, and he agreed; so I left him and our son with one hot chocolate and set up the mountain across from the skiers, on a winding path dotted with donkey poop.  

Farid met me along the way. I asked if he knew where cheap lodgings were to be had, and he motioned for me to follow him. As we wound our way further from other homes, and the sun began its descent, I wondered whether this was a good idea. I had been warned that these hills were full of robbers and outlaws. Tourists had been murdered recently. There were kidnappings. These people wanted separatism, and the world wasn’t listening; so they took matters into their own hands and became famous for something other than skiing. Those who skied, who made it big in skiing - they never came back. Those who didn’t make it got stuck skiing backwards for the rest of their lives. 

Except Farid: he made it, and came back. I should have known right then he was crazy. But I didn’t; I followed him, up and up, till the air got thinner than a winter mountain goat. “Almost there,” he said many times; it was always a lie.

Then, here we were. Home sweet home. It was so covered in snow I could only see that the structure was round. He fumbled in his many pockets. Finally, and old brass key glimmering in the light snow itself seems to provide. He dug through to the keyhole, but the key would not move past the ice. He bent down, then, on one knee. Gently, cupping his hands, he blew into the keyhole. He took in great puffs of air, then, long and slow, blew them in until the ice in the hole melted and poured out, the hole warm and ready for the key. 

Inside, I could see that it was made of clay like a wild beehive, hand-coiled and smoothed, with insulation of wool billowing off in many places. I felt tired, and there were two beds covered in heaps of colorful blankets. “How much?”

I bargained him down until he would budge no more, shaking his head. He was tall, hefty, with a generous moustache and secretive eyes. I handed the money to him. He went so fast down the mountain that I thought he was running from me, though he promised to bring our gear up by donkey and let our son ride on its back. The key remained in the door. 

I caught up with Farid. He now had a donkey. He hoisted my son onto its back. My husband followed far behind. “Heat?” I asked, out of breath. “What will we do for heat up there?” 

“There is fire… you didn’t see?”

“No, but OK. Like a wood stove?”

“No, fire. You will see.”

Maybe we should have splurged for the ski lodge. The moon was out now, so we could see clearly; but I suddenly felt so tired; I worried we would freeze and never wake up.

That’s when he started telling me about skiing. My son didn’t understand the local lingua franca, but liked to be riding high up on an animal’s back. I looked to make sure my husband was following. He was, though far behind. The places Farid had skied rolled off his tongue with an ease that jolted me, as if he’d just conjured all those places, some of which I had been to or even lived in. Like me, he was more there than here. 

“What!” I yelled back. My husband had called my name. “He’s hurt,” I told Farid. “We have to go back for him.” So we did, and he had sprained his ankle. Since we were already almost there, we kept going. My husband weighed down the donkey, my son walked, and our pace slowed. 

In the hut, Farid lit a fire in a narrow fireplace, our only light. The logs were chopped to the perfect size and stacked along the wall of the vestibule way before you entered the bedroom; a blanket hung between. 

“I want this bed!” my son exclaimed, thrilled with the adventure.

“I guess I will have to keep getting up in the night to put logs on the fire, huh,” I said, referring to my husband’s increased uselessness. 

“We will get a big snow,” said Farid. It occurred to me I hadn’t checked the weather or asked the driver of the hefty vehicle that brought us and some skiers over rivers and through woods to this oasis of snow and packed slopes, where local kids raced the lift to the top, then skied across the mountain on wild trails, up and down peaks, through trees, as if it were their way to own the whole range that was (for now) their world. Their fathers skied backward, watching them, up there, at the same time. They paid little attention to the tourist children whose hands they held, but wished better lives for their own.

“That’s OK. I’m not afraid of a little snow. Won’t kill us.”

“No,” he corrected me. “Big snow.” He looked at my son, playing in the candlelight with some wool that had fallen off the walls. “I think you should go down. I will give your money back.” I looked at him, shock and anger scribbled on my face. He shuffled back and forth on his sturdy trunks for legs.

“If he thinks we should go, we should go,” my husband said.

“You’re always such a pushover!” I snapped. “We’re staying right here. There’s plenty of wood. Insulation seems good. It’s an adventure!”

Farid quietly closed the door, whispering goodnight.

My husband reached for me in the night when our son in the next bed was breathing the song of sleep and the fire was glowing, ready to catch the new log I had placed there. He reached for me to hold me; I turned away. I pretended to sleep. I heard him quietly rise and open the door, limping out into the snow - I presumed to pee. The log was already orange and he still wasn’t back. I put on my coat and boots. I followed his tracks, sometimes just one foot hopping, and sometimes a body, falling. The stars were almost blinding in their brilliance. I called his name;  no answer. 

I thought about him, our story, my fierce pull towards him, him towards me, and how we’d infested each other’s lives. My friends all felt I had married below me in every way, though they were nice to him to his face. I agreed. I couldn’t explain it, but it was there - my eerie pull towards his flabby arms, his patient tongue, the very blandness of him. And of course, as happens, what attracted me also came to repulse me, when the magnet flipped around. He’d brought out the worst in me. I hated him for it. There was nothing either of us could do.

Finally, there he was, a heap of snow himself by now. He was crying icicle tears. “Get up!” I yelled. “We have to go back - what if our son wakes up?” Dutifully, he rose. Then he flopped back down again. “What’s the matter?” 

“I thought by taking this vacation… I thought we’d stay on the beach, down where it’s warm, relax together, get to know each other again. I thought you’d be happy, less stressed. Why always the cold?”

“It’s alright. It’ll be OK. Come on.”

He was shivering, shaking, hopping while leaning on me. It was a strain, but something about the proximity flipped a switch in me. I wanted his weight on me, all of it, engulfing me so I would become just an island floating somewhere, melting into water. Inside, it was warm and our son slept soundly. I did an ancient thing: peeling off layers of clothing, whispering “come, man, come,” whispering “here” and “there” until everywhere was forgotten and I knew whatever happened we would still be whole, because this was what we had and nothing more.