Its a Thursday evening at any given Midwest ski hill.
The sun is setting but its hard to see it from the bottom of the hill.
The lines arent long, just long enough to wait a few chairs.
Four strangers group up for the one minute and 30 second ride to the top.
Just long enough for the usual pleasantries.
What the others wont learn about this young guy is his need for expression.
Skiing is a form of art that resonates within himself more than any other form.
Drawing required too steady of hand, making music required sitting too still, and on it goes.
But skiing, that taught him something about himself that cannot be expressed.
He runs lap after lap through the park.
He skis quickly but smoothly.
Others say his style is outdated; he knows its his own.
Sitting next to him is a woman in her thirties.
She cranks tight turns lap after lap, leaving railroad tracks behind her the whole way.
In only an hour she will be on her way home.
Its not that shes training for something, its just that life is hard.
Joining them is a man who appears in his late twenties.
This man never considered himself a spiritual man until a few years ago.
On the right side of the chair is a middle-aged gentleman.
He wears a snowmobile jacket and is on rentals.
He comes every couple of weeks if he can, starting this season.
Growing up his father took him skiing regularly at this same hill.
Those nights were some of his favorites as child.
As the chair passes the last tower, the sunset becomes clear.
Its a wonderful backdrop for a night of sliding on snow.
The gentleman on the right of the chair wishes everyone a nice night at they go their separate ways.
Image credit: Bittersweet Resort Facebook
