Credit:Rustic

A piece of fiction by Ann Schissler

At Alpine Haven Resort, everyone knew when Edith “Edi” Farnsworth had arrived. Usually, it was the jacket that gave her away—something puffy and reflective, as if it had been stolen from a ski patrolman in the 1980s and then dunked in a melted box of crayons. Other times it was the helmet, a shiny metallic green number that looked more like it should be worn by a freestyle skier like Wayne Wong. But more often, it was the sound of her voice drifting through the frosty air as she spoke to her skis like old friends. “All right, Micky and Lindsey,” she said one crisp morning, tightening her boots with the stubborn precision of someone who had learned the ritual late in life. “Let’s try to behave today. And by behave, I mean let’s try to not break anything.”

Edi was seventy-two but carried herself with the mischievous energy of someone much younger. She hummed 70s rock songs as a kind of “pre-slope meditation,” which she insisted improved her balance and scared away bad weather. Teenagers adored her because she challenged them to races she had no business winning—and often did. Beginners adored her because she handed out unexpected hand warmers or pocket snacks from her ever present backpack that she got from a retired ski racer friend and offered advice like, “Lean forward, dear. Gravity is trying to help you, not kill you.”

What most people didn’t know—at least not until they warmed up to her unusual sense of humor—was that Edi hadn’t started skiing until she was over fifty. Before that, she’d worked three decades at a desk job processing medical invoices. “One day I realized my body was more adventurous than my life,” she liked to say. “So, I retired and let it choose a passion.” And it turned out that was skiing.

That morning, the air smelled faintly of pine and distant woodsmoke. A light dusting of new snow gave the mountain a softness that promised good runs and maybe a few surprises. Edi touched her lucky left glove—mended with duct tape in three places—and started toward her favorite lift.

A young family was ahead of her, moving like an unruly mob. The mother looked exhausted; the father wore that wide-eyed expression of someone who had realized too late that skiing required actual structure and a small level of basic skill. Their little girl, bundled up like a burrito, stared solemnly at Edi’s helmet decal. It’s an owl,” Edi explained, bending down. “A very wise owl. He helps me make good choices on the slopes.” The girl blinked. “Does he talk?” “Only when the snow is listening.”

They all laughed and just like that the tension melted. Edi boarded the lift feeling the anticipation. She glanced down at the trees drifting below her, remembering the story she had told the little girl’s mother—a story the locals still whispered occasionally but that Edi rarely spoke of unless someone asked directly.

It had been twelve years earlier on a February morning not unlike this one. She’d been skiing alone, enjoying the reckless freedom of someone who had only recently learned how thrilling it felt to fly solo. A wrong turn, or what she had thought was a wrong turn, had taken her far off the groomed trails. The snow had deepened, the air grown quiet. Then she’d seen him—a young snowboarder half-buried near a fallen log, pale with cold, barely conscious. He had been missing overnight. She still remembered the jolt of terror, then the clarity that followed. She talked to him the entire time—her instinct, as always—telling him silly stories and encouraging him to keep breathing as she bundled him in spare layers from her backpack. She fed him a pocket treat and used knots she’d learned from an old mountaineering book to brace his injured leg. She then poured hot chocolate from her thermos into a cup and placed it into his cold trembling hands.

The ski patrol later remarked that her quick decisions—and her eccentric but useful habit of bringing far more supplies than necessary—had kept him alive long enough for rescuers to save him. They called her a hero. She had called it “just following the snow where it took me.”

The lift bumped gently as she reached the top. Edi slid off smoothly, inhaling the crisp air like a promise. She paused to take in the view: endless slopes, sun catching on ice crystals, pines dusted with new snow. This, she thought, is why I keep skiing. At any age, the mountain has something new to teach you.

She pushed off and began her descent, carving beautiful turns down the fall line. Her legs moved with practiced confidence; her body felt light, the world simple. A pair of teenagers zipped by, shouting her name. “Race you later!” she hollered, knowing full well she would. Midway down, she stopped near a family of beginners struggling with their poles. She quickly adjusted their stances and sent them off with a cheerful reminder about using chairlifts carefully, keeping aware of other skiers and minding the responsibility code.

By midday, the sun shimmered at the peak, and Edi paused again, resting on her poles. She imagined the little girl, who liked her owl decal and the parents who would now smile at their child’s new skills. And she imagined the man she had rescued years ago—now a father himself, who sent her a holiday card every year. She tapped her skis lightly. “All right, Micky and Lindsey. One more run. Let’s see what story the mountain has to tell us today.” and with that, Edi Farnsworth—lover of retro gear, rescuer of lost hikers, unofficial queen of Alpine Haven Resort—glided back onto the snow, leaving behind a trail as quirky and wonderful as she was.