"The Drought" By Joshua Ceazan

I gave up trying to meet a girl all together after several weeks of unsuccessfull searching that made me feel like a loser. Evenings were spent throwing darts in the local pub or playing cards and drinking beer in our room when we were low on money. Conversations degenerated to talking about how good past seasons were. "I remember there was so much snow last year that by May we could still ski all over the mountain." my roomate reminisced, "One day we built a jump and spent the whole day practicing. At one point this American ski bum skied up to where we were standing above the jump. He was completely naked except for a backpack. Without saying a word he skied down to the jump, pulled a perfect back-flip, skidded to a stop, and took a long jacket out of his pack, which he donned and skied away in. I suppose his head was just pumped full of confidence since we had been having such a good winter, skiing every day."

As New Yearīs eve passed in a haze of drunkeness I began to think more frequently about where my life was headed. At a time when many of my old friends from college were putting on suits, going to an office, earning respectable saleries, and coming home to either a steady girlfriend or wife, I was making just enough money to live, sleeping on a floor with two other guys, and not advancing myself in any type of career. I had chosen this way of life in order to ski as much as possible, but what would happen when I know longer had my physical prowess or skiing lost itīs allure. What would I have? No money, no job, and, by the way things were going, no girlfriend.

My friends who had chosen a more traditional lifestyle than mine seemed to do so out of a need for security. But, I thought to myself, did this sense of security make them feel happy or were they just afraid to live real lives because there were too many risks involved. My life seemed real when I was in the mountains. Just nature and myself, real life. There is no way sitting at a desk all day could make me feel alive, I assured myself.

It had been so long since I had skied a good day that I started to question why I was living this way in the first place. For every passing day that there was no snow more and more questions began to clog my mind. Like a junkie going through withdrawels, I started to feel a dull suffering permeate my body and mind. I needed my skiing fix.

Mid-January was upon us already as I walked through town one day, looking at people who spent more on one ski jacket than I spent in two monthes for all my living expenses. My mind was as clogged as ever with questions. Should I be more responsible? look for a career? find a steady girlfriend? Start thinking about my future? As these big, too big to answer, questions entrapped my head in there steely grip, a funny thing happened. Big, beautiful, white flakes, and plenty of them, began falling from the sky. This was it. The snow was finally coming, there will be good skiing tomorrow I thought, as the storm built up steam. Before going to sleep that night I looked into the street light outside my window to make sure it was still snowing. It was, harder than ever. The questions and pain had left me. I layed down in my sleeping bag and, with the knowledge that a good ski day awaited, soon fell into a content slumber. At that moment I felt alive because, as anyone who has ever tapped into itīs awesome power knows, skiing is life.

It was mid-January and finally, after a month and a half of sitting around and waiting, a big snow storm had left itīs mark on the mountain. I stood at the top of a small cliff band, poles dug in to keep me from moving forward as my ski tips pointed out the flight direction. The landing below looked good. A pillowy cushion of fresh powder covered the huge bowl accesible from the rock ridge I was perched on. I gave a push with my poles, jumped up over the end of the rock, tucked my knees up into my stomach, thrust my hands out in front, and soared blissfully into the air about four meters before submarining into the snowy slope below. I landed on my feet and started to make a turn. Powdery snow collected in front of my knees and began to blow over my face at each turn. Faint hoots and hollers echoed from the cliff above where a few friends watched as I effortlessly turned down the fall line leaving a signature brush stroke on the untouched canvas of white snow behind me. The pitch levelled out after about 150 turns of virgin powder. coming to a stop I turned around just in time to see one of my friend launch into the air and start his descent down the bowl which was silent except for occasional boisterous yells of skiers enraptured in the pleasure of powder skiing.

Cliff jump As I stood watching my friends descend one after another my mind felt clear. I remembered why I was here, why I had chosen this lifestyle. Powder skiing must be the closest man can come to walking on water without the aid of a machine. It is also one of the most addictive feelings I have ever felt. For a few of us who fall prey to this addiction, there is a name; We are callled ski bums, people who choose a lifestyle based purely on having the freedom to ski as many days as possible during the winter. The ski bum lifestyle may seem like pure hedonism on the surface, but there is another side.

When I graduated from an American university with a degree in photo-journalism my plan was to take a year off for skiing and then pursue a more traditional lifestyle and career. It was now my third year out of school and I was complety hooked on the skiing lifestyle, never holding a job of higher status than ski-tech, dishwasher, or prep cook. As long as I skied during the day it did not matter what sort of work I had. My first year out of college was spent in a Colorado ski resort. The next year I decided to move on to bigger things and, on a friends advice, moved to a ski town in the Swiss Alps.

My first season in Europe was amazing, so much snow and so many nice people that I barely had time to think. It was now my second season in the same resort. This season had been strange so far. An early season snow drought had left the mountain open with only man-made snow on many of it's pistes, hard icy moguls where there were any, and no hope of skiing off-piste in sight. Work was sparse and I had been living in a small hotel room with two other guys. The room had just enough space to stretch our legs at night if we situated the sleeping bags properely. The owner of the hotel let us help with cooking and cleaning in the evening for room and board.

The drought wore on through December and by Christmas time the town was packed with tourists, but still only a sparse snow cover blanketed the mountain. With no skiing to be had, the energy of my ski bum colleagues and I was channelled into partying and trying to meet someone of the opposite sex. One of the set backs of living in a ski resort, though, (for heterosexual males) is that far fewer women choose to do so than men. At parties the ratio of men to women must have been at least five to one. Competitiion was fierce and soon I found myself feeling enviouse of people that had steady girl or boyfriends.