Patchwork snow means it’s the last lift. As Head Liftie, I have the privilege of being the final skier on every once crowded slope. I wonder if there will be a prize for me if I manage to winterize the machinery and zigzag my way back, avoiding the grassy flags and safely arriving at the bottom in one piece?
Doubtful, I muse, since I’d been the one to start the final lift myself and most of the staff cleared out weeks ago when the sun stopped losing battles to the blowers.
“Enjoy the climb,” I always say to my clients, year after year, so I try to take my own advice. This particular line takes the bravest sportsmen straight to the resort’s steepest peak. I flatter myself that after thirty winters there isn’t any side of Montpellier I can’t sidewind.
Above, patches of blue divide the snowy clouds, and I wondering if my sweet Evelyn is watching from on a’ them frosty peaks? I can only hope so. Maybe she’s up there right now enjoying a turn on one o’ them everlasting snow slopes that must run year-round in heaven.
Oh, I’ll be joining you soon, sweet girl, I think, as I push off to close the season.
This piece is prepared for Fandango’s Flash Fiction #197. Image by Max Whittaker for the San Francisco Chronicle.
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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