"Shred the Gnar, Brah!"

                There is a clarity to the mountain air. You can feel it, the purity, palpably as Highway #3 rises out of the foothills (a place with its own romanticized ethos) into the Crowsnest. The horrible majesty of the Frank Slide, lunar still in the scope of its desolation, even after more than a century, adds to the drama of the drive; you know that now you are there, in a place where the Mother still dictates her will on her children. Humbling, and pure, we ant-like sapiens insignificant against the sheer backdrop of the earth thrust heavenwards.

                The Eagle joins the Elk, and the highway follows this confluence into the valley. Fernie is ahead of us, we leave everything else behind. The sky closes in, lowers itself onto us. The mountains become lost in thick woollen skies. Fernie is not so much cloud-shouldered, as cloud enveloped. The snow itself is heavy and plentiful.

                A local on the lift is gnashing in anticipation. “First tracks, brah! Two feet last night, the pow is gonna be gnar!” He is a coal miner, just coming off of a night shift. But sleep can wait. He, and most of this blue collar place, keeps to a simple rule; more than 20cm of snow, and making fresh tracks in the powder trumps all other earthly concerns. He heads off, boot packing to higher ground not accessible by the chair. The descent from his new perch is severe. “Shred the gnar, brah!” he calls back with a wave.

                Avalanche control is serious business in the mountains. Detonations are a common start to the day. Some of the booms are felt, chest deep resonances, as opposed to heard. At different times, powder bowls are closed, and the explosions ensue. The knack is, to time your chair so that when the ropes are lifted, you are one of the first to track up the virgin snow.

                We follow her out across the wide open top of Currie Bowl. Can’t see much, it is snowing like a bastard, flakes as thick as dander from Satan’s own hounds. Thoughtfully placed stakes mark otherwise invisible drop offs. We avoid most of them; my powdered beard proves I didn’t avoid all of them. Leading us out onto the high shouldered ridge between Currie and the Lizard takes coaxing. The snow and wind howl, and this ridge, a narrow band of trail known as the Sky Dive Traverse, is serious terrain. A false step or glide, and it is a long way down a steep mountain. Fear, usually an unknown, rages. We pass High Saddle, where she yells back “Don’t follow me! Cliff!” Like goats we scrabble down to an alternate route, and see from the saddle the naked immensity of rock that she had seen just in time.

                The Saddle passes, snow at its apex waist deep. The wind pushes us now, and at last we say, “We need to get off this ridge,” acknowledging the fear.

                We do not know much about Zen, more familiar with its empty, modern commercial incarnation, than with its ancient roots. But we understand it as this, as the connection of all things, the oneness of the all. Perhaps that is a bastardization, but it’s the best we can do for now. And we feel it, setting our ski’s downhill somewhere between Tom’s Run and Sky Dive. The waist deep snow, the heaving turns, ski’s buried in powder. Trees looming out of the snowy gloaming; the turns, both graced and graceless. The descent, a canted 37 degrees according to one skier’s app. Breathless anticipation, exhilaration, clarity in the mountain air.

                Shred the Gnar, Brah.