The weight of my presence

by Erich Rickens (Netherlands)

A leap into the unknown France

The last chairlift had disappeared over an hour ago, and my friends an hour before that. Alone, I was hiking upwards in search of steeper sections, whiter cliffs, and lighter, deeper snow. With aching legs I arched my body forward and stomped my left boot into the snow. Then, my right boot. Again and again, up and down. I continued my upward ascent in search of a peak. More than that, I was in search of the feeling that a powder run like this could provide. It’s a feeling that arguably transcends the limited confines of language, but that might be described by words such as fulfillment, elation, or a state of pure flow. I was getting closer. With each exertion of breath I could feel the altitude creeping into my system. Each drawn out lunge into the snow propelled me forward, bringing me closer to a point at which I was finally able to stop and turn around. Slowly, I moved my head from left to right, attentively absorbing what I saw before me - the endless valleys of the Alps, ceaselessly drawn out into a pastel artwork of white clouds and white peaks against the backdrop of a clear blue sky. Taking a deep breath, I collapsed into the snow behind me to strap on my board and focus on the ride ahead, tuning into the state of mind I was so desperately seeking. Using the last of my energy, I dug my fists into the snow below me and edged the backside of my board into the snow. Tensing up my whole body, I pushed myself up off the ground and into a standing position. As my weight shifted, the snow underneath me began to move. In slow, mounded heaps of powder, the formation grew. Layers of snow started morphing into one another, continuously sliding downwards as gravity began its remarkable dance of descent. The speed increased, and suddenly the few particles of snow beneath my boots had rapidly compounded into an immense force of energy, hurtling down the mountain and collecting more and more snow in the process. With my board still firmly lodged into the snow, and my beating heart rising firmly into my throat, I nervously watched as the enormous cloud of snow, with the force of an ocean, descended into the valley below. I looked up at the sky, winced, and looked back down the mountain face for the avalanche that I had created. Instead of the moving snow mass, I saw a line of trees below, now covered up to their necks in snow that only seconds before was under my board. I watched the trees stoically bearing the weight of my presence. I had triggered a motion on top of their mountain, and now their roots were tensed below the ground, tirelessly determined to maintain the natural order of things that I had disrupted. Within that moment, a boundless and universal truth was bestowed upon me. It was never about me or my self-serving pursuit of adventure. It was never about my search for steeper sections, whiter cliffs, and lighter, deeper snow. The mountain was my means, and I had been using it to achieve my own goal of exhilaration, accomplishment, and momentary silence within my otherwise-racing mind. The mountain lived, and I had impolitely awoken it from its peaceful slumber. To the rider, my avalanche symbolizes a threat to outlive; to the wolf a forecast of potential migration; to the forest an assurance of new topography; to the individual tree a heavy blanket threatening to uproot it. The mountain - nature’s oldest temple - is laden with layers of meaning known only to its dearest inhabitants. I was no such inhabitant. If anything, I was an intruder, a visitor, perhaps a burdensome guest. Sometimes, we all search for a part of ourselves in nature, hoping to find silence in our minds and contentment in our hearts. What if, maybe, we enjoyed nature for the sake of itself, and not for the sake of ourselves? After the snow has settled and the avalanche run its course, it will still be us seeking nature, and not nature seeking us.