There are old skiers and bold skiers, but no old bold skiers.

Gliding through the drizzle, raindrops trace paths down my face. I take a quenching sip. As the rain intensifies, the snowpack turns translucent. A patchwork of puddles forms. Rippling in the wind, I target each one like a pillow on a powder day. A splash, a skid, a slash, no one in my way. Slush is powder’s sloppy cousin, forgiving my old knees. 

With a high five to a sluggish lifty, I ski straight onto the chair. My goggles fog, my gloves drip, water runs down the back of my leg. If I keep my head down and hood on, my neck will stay dry.  

At the top of the chair the wind is strong, whipping through the snow gums. Leaf confetti adds contrast to the snow. I push off the chair and point my skis down the fall line. The snow is consistent, creamy and forgiving. 

With every turn and air, I wonder where everyone is. I wonder if they know what they are missing. I make the most of the frail snow pack, cherishing every turn. If the rain keeps falling, they may be my last of the season. Time for another lap.