Chapter 5

February 16

The last rays of daylight lengthened Hudson Rogers’ shadow on the snow in front of him as he began long swooping turns from one side of the trail to the other. Referred to in early days as “the Narrow Arrow”, The Needle had gradually been widened in order to, it was said, suit the tastes of contemporary skiers. Perhaps as likely it was the desires of ski area operators to accommodate more traffic on the same number of trails. For his taste he preferred the narrower trails, spiced with imaginative twists and turns, opening up crisp, white sculptures around each corner. He was almost finished ribboning White Snake, a new back-of-the-mountain trail scheduled for cutting come spring. It would justify its name.

He jumped a mogul, spreading his skis wide, then bringing them together just before landing. Galendesprung. He hadn’t heard that word in years, though it used to be one of the compulsory forms in early freestyle competitions. Years later some of the mogul runs had come here to Mt Washington Valley. Hudson learned freestyle in his early teens and loved letting it all out: snaking through the powder at trail’s edge, spinning a 360 off a bump, fitting himself to the mountain’s contours. Wasn’t that what skiing was about, each run custom designed by you and the mountain? Today’s freestylers had lost touch with that.

He reached the lip and stopped. His head throbbed from the jump. Perhaps he should have Jim Evans check it. Maybe the inquisitive doctor could restrain his curiosity for once. He himself had been surprised to find a houseguest on his return from Europe. Particularly a male houseguest. Cilla was wary of men - no, that wasn’t strong enough, she just didn’t like men - and would never consider giving one houseroom. An exception had been made for one who saved her life.

He admired the more intimate view than that from the top. It was a specially welcome sight after St. Petersburg - the sweep of the Presidential Range and the White Mountain National Forest; to the east the villages of Mt. Washington Valley nearly bare under a thinner than usual layer of crusty mid-winter snow. It was Tuesday, the weekend hordes had long since returned to their homes in Newton, Hingham and Avon. Below him the trail dipped steeply and cut sharply to his right, leaving jumbled mountains at eye level, and valley far below. Easy lift rides to views like these probably spoiled many for the effort to reach them in summer, he thought. Yet there is no substitute for the feeling of aloneness on a mountain peak or trail - where all you can hear is chirp of a cricket or, as now, the click of your skis. That’s why he enjoyed the end-of-day run, sweeping the mountain for leftover skiers, and often made it, whether scheduled or not. His aimless fleeing to New Hampshire last spring, after the sudden death of his wife of twelve years, had been the right move. There was a fascination to the White Mountains. He wondered if those who lived in other mountainous areas felt the same about their home turf. Probably. Though here in the Presidential Range he could reach their tops without the rope and pitons required by upstart angular peaks. Climbing through churchly spires of pine and fir and fluttering parties of birch and beech, by casual brooks with elderly rocks, rounded by age, in gurgling conversation. The snap of a twig might be a deer or bear; the scurry of a raccoon had recently been replaced by the crashing of a blundering moose.

As he rounded the last turn in the trail, he saw his wife of two months on the front deck of the base station. Her back was to him, and he allowed his momentum to carry him up the snow-covered ramp to land with a clatter of skis on the wooden deck next to her.

“Whup,” Cilla blinked. “I should have known. My husband refuses to show proper respect for his boss.” She looked up at a boyish grin. “But he might have a little for that middle aged body he throws around so carelessly.”

“He took a child bride to keep him young, not to badger him with insults on his mature physique. Which incidentally didn’t get that way on cauliflower and broccoli. If I brought a steak home tonight would you let it in the house?”

“Surprise. I already have one. If you’re headed home throw some potatoes in the oven for the two of us. Andre’s eating out with Bob.”