About 90 minutes ago, I was standing in a snowstorm on the top of a ski resort mountain, virtually alone.
The wind was howling, which caused all but two ski lifts to close. (Normally seven lifts serve those upper elevations.)
Let’s back up another hour.
I got to the mountain early, met friends, and headed for the advanced terrain I love to ski when the snow is deep. We took one run, then another. The snow was deep, and getting deeper.
Then a thought occurred to me: with so many lifts closed, the main peak on this side of the resort—the one that typically is packed with people—must be deserted.
So I opted for a strategy that made no sense if my primary goal was skiing. I took the slow, old lift to the next peak, where the skiing wasn’t as good but where I could be virtually alone there for the first time in many decades of skiing Park City Mountain.
It worked. I stood like a tree at the top, snow dumping on my head, the wind pushing against my body, surrounded by nature. It was both eerie and magical.
For the past two weeks, this resort has been mobbed with skiers. It has been the furthest thing from solitude. But this morning I found solitude, simply by spotting a moment in time that offered a truly awe-inspiring experience.
We don’t alway need to travel to find magical experiences. Sometimes it’s enough to simply get up early to watch the sunrise, or stay up late to see the meteor shower.
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Many thanks to the 11 readers of this newsletter who have already supported my Liminal artwork experiment. I’m truly grateful to you all.
Cheers,
Bruce