snowboarding

Hard Frost

Frost called to the water Halt

And crushed the moist snow with sparkling salt;

Brooks, their own bridges, stop,

And icicles in long stalactites drop.

And tench in water-holes 

Lurk under gluey glass like fish in bowls.

In the hard rutted lane

At every footstep breaks a brittle pane

And tinkling trees ice-bound,

Changed into weeping willows, sweep the ground;

Dead boughs take root in ponds

And ferns in windows shoot their ghostly fronds.

. . .

Andrew Young

the temperatures went down, 

and covered the land with snow.

finlay and i suddenly said: "lets go snowboarding!"

finlay had picked up a second-hand snowboard for a reasonable price.

first we showed it to the motorists, thinking that the winter sports enthusiasts would see it and pick us up, then we hid it from the motorists, thinking that thus those with small cars wouldn't be put off by its bulkiness.   the young woman who took us to glenmore lodge told us about a good place to practise - the hayfield.  it was a field with a small slope covered with snow that had been compacted by countless sledge runs.  we arrived late in the afternoon and found the place teeming with sledgers - mostly young families and many of them polish.  finlay recognised all the polish voices and i also registered a few spanish voices.  the air was filled with thrilled laughter and whoops of excitement, the whoops not specific to any language. the excited polish chatter of one young girl was broken by her warcry: snowball fight! - recently learned in a scottish school playground, i surmised.  there was a lot of snow around and not a breath of wind - so unusual for scotland.  the beautiful weather had enticed everybody to get out and enjoy the snow that weekend. it was very exciting.  finlay and i took it in turns to strap our boots into the snowboard bindings and "shred the slope"  

"men, lets shred this slope!" was the phrase we often used but in fact what we did was stand up cautiously and concentrate savagely on maintaining our balance as the snowboard slid down the slight incline.  despite it being only a small hill, it provided us with our first magical feeling of sliding over snow.  it made so much an of impression on me that as i was going to sleep that night it still felt as if i was sliding over snow.

the next day we didn't even deign to look out at the hayfield as we got a lift up to the cairngorm ski centre.  our sights were set on bigger slopes.  finlay was much pleased to find the snow deep and just the right consistency - compact enough to allow the snowboard to skim blithely across the surface, while being soft enough for the board to cut into the snow, allowing us to practise board manoeuvring and speed control.  also soft enough for us not to hurt ourselves as we fell over - which we often did.  even at speed the silky soft snow accommodated our flailing bodies and cradled us luxuriously.   beautiful wondrous snow!   one of us always waited with the rucksacks while the other one trudged high up the slope, snowboard tucked under arm then after a while came sliding down maybe cautiously and punctuated by falling over or maybe whizzing and whooping with delight while being carried smoothly quite a long way down the slope.   men, it got under our skin.  we couldn't stop saying things in a new zealand eccent.

at night we returned to nearby ryvoan bothy.  as we entered the first night we were greeted by the sight of two recumbent bodies, cocooned in their sleeping bags.  although night had not long fallen - it was six o'clock or so - the two other bothy occupants had already turned in for the night.  finlay was disinclined to speak any language other than english, saying that it was impolite to speak in a tongue unknown to all of those present, for they may feel that things are being said about them.

¿pero qué importa si estan durmiendo? - i said - ¿y como sabes que no hablan español?  a lo mejor éste - que parece estar durmiendo - nos esta escuchando cada palabra y nos entiende perfectamente porque tiene una segunda casa cerca de malaga y desde hace años pasa sus vacaciones ahi . . .

we went back to speaking in our new zealand accents, speaking in low tones.  we played a game of chess by the fire, and later also a round of five hundred, in hommage to antipodean habits. finlay bedded down, but i just couldn't get to sleep.  it wasn't a bad night to be struck with insomnia for the moon had gone down early and left a huge starry dome pulsating with unusual energy.  could this be what they call the northern lights?  finlay went out to have a look and came back saying "well, it certainly is very starry, but i don't think its the northern lights."  i put on all my layers and stood outside for a long time.  i can't remember the last time i saw the stars twinkling so vivaciously.  they were so alive!   the whole sky was alive, awash with pulsating stars.  each star had its own twinkling rhythm, obeyed its own inner light pulsation.  the overall effect was a shifting shining sky of immense effulgence.  back inside, i got the fire going and, even though it was the middle of the night, it seemed the right moment to cook our vegetarian haggis.  we did this by boiling it in the bag, the way i remember my mother doing it in earlier years.  just as finlay and i had begun tucking in, one of the other bothy users' alarm went off.   it was ian - a student from stirling university who had an ambitious day's snow-tramping ahead of him. he hoped to make the summit of braeriach and be down in aviemore in time to get the evening train.  finlay and i were eating, making appreciative mmmmm, its so tasty noises.  we asked ian if he wanted to try some, but he said, with a little chuckle, nah, not this early.  it was five am.

the last verse of andrew young's poem is the verse my dad likes the best because of its theme of hope:

But vainly the fierce frost

Interns poor fish, ranks trees in an armed host,

Hangs daggers from house-eaves

And on the windows ferny ambush weaves;

In the long war grown warmer

The sun will strike him dead and strip his armour.