Arnold in Repose.

This is how it's been for us. And by us, I'm talking about Arnie and me.


We've been kind of sleepy. Lazy. Sick.

Well, by "Arnold and me," I guess I just mean, me, because, really, Arnold seems totally fine. Poor guy can't really walk himself, though, so he's forced to suffer alongside his mama....


Part of it, I think, has to do with the winter feeling fragmented. Skiing has been inconsistent at best, and truthfully, I don't really mind. I've had a few wonderful days out there, but some mornings I wake up and am uninspired. I've been kind of into yoga and CrossFit and climbing, and when I'm sore and tired from those, the thought of skinning up Flag just to get a glimpse of my partners' backs as they drop in is not appealing.

I mean, in some instances, skiing is always awesome. Here in the Wasatch, we are so lucky to have a group of capable, motivated, skilled female skiers always ready to go skiing, always ready for a big day. I find that skiing with my girls almost always appeals to me, even when the thought of skiing with male friends - including Brad - has me hitting snooze and pulling the covers over my head. What is it? Why is it so much easier for me to be a part of a she-ski-group?

Polly and I talked about this a bit the last time we were out. For me, it has something to do with guilt. The guilt of making other people wait for me. The guilt of not being as good as the others. The guilt of not wanting to ski big days all the time, not wanting to ski dangerous lines....And so on.

The thing is, though, my girlfriends are really fast. I'm slower than most of them just as I'm faster than some of my male friends. Likewise, plenty of the men I know love short easy tours, and lots of the women I know want big, steep days everyday. So why have I drawn this line - this arbitrary determination of what is ok and what is not - according to sex? If I were honest with myself, I'd make these decisions based on actual experiences and not just run my mouth about skiing with men. If I were smarter, or maybe just more logical, I'd realize that my fast friends wouldn't call me to go skiing if they didn't mind waiting a few minutes at the top of a climb. I'd realize, maybe, that the guilt is stupid and does nothing but hurt me. It's not productive; it doesn't help the situation.


But it's hard to shake.

Whatif.

“You have to take the superstition out of it,” said Bill.

We were standing on top of Days Fork, and I was coming unglued. Brad and I had dug a couple snow pits, talked about snow conditions and made reasonable decisions based on our findings, but I still felt like the whole mountain could just collapse in a heartbeat. I felt incredible trepidation; like I was just waiting for it to happen.

“It’s not a mystery,” Bill continued, referring to snow science. “You can figure it out. You just have to get in there and look.”

I know.

But the thing is, I can study the snow pack all day – that doesn’t mean I trust it.

I didn’t tell Bill that my fears were bigger than that moment on top of Days Fork, bigger than that particular snow pack. That it wasn’t that day; it was every day. It wasn’t backcountry skiing; it was everything.

It was hearing people I love take a cavalier attitude toward safety. It was hearing people declare, “that slope will never slide,” or “that will never happen,” while looking me straight in the eye.

It’s then that I get all kinds of self-righteous. It’s then that I want to stand on top of a milk crate and scream, “you don’t know!”

Because in my experience, things that “don’t happen” did. Things that “can’t happen” have. And to develop a false sense of safety based on those blind assumptions, well, that scares me.

On the other hand, I seem to be the only one missing out. As I consider the people I see in the backcountry, I’m the only one who seems to stop short of fun because of what might happen. I’m the only one not racking up huge vert because the slope could slide. Do other people even think about these things? Everyone else just seems to be listening to tunes, zoning out and dropping in, concerned with nothing more than the untracked snow in front of them.

There’s a balance, I suppose, and I’ve never been good at balance. Maybe that's why I reference this poem nearly every day:

Whatif
Shel Silverstein

Last night, while I lay thinking here,
some Whatifs crawled inside my ear
and pranced and partied all night long
and sang their same old Whatif song:
Whatif I'm dumb in school?
Whatif they've closed the swimming pool?
Whatif I get beat up?
Whatif there's poison in my cup?
Whatif I start to cry?
Whatif I get sick and die?
Whatif I flunk that test?
Whatif green hair grows on my chest?
Whatif nobody likes me?
Whatif a bolt of lightning strikes me?
Whatif I don't grow talle?
Whatif my head starts getting smaller?
Whatif the fish won't bite?
Whatif the wind tears up my kite?
Whatif they start a war?
Whatif my parents get divorced?
Whatif the bus is late?
Whatif my teeth don't grow in straight?
Whatif I tear my pants?
Whatif I never learn to dance?
Everything seems well, and then
the nighttime Whatifs strike again!

Don't be like this...

"The ones who don’t do anything are always the ones who try to pull you down."
-Henry Rollins

Instead, be supportive. Be compassionate. Be a friend.

This is a good one to remember.