The Body in the Snowdrift

The curtains at the window didn't quite meet in the middle, and a sliver of gray winter dawn cut across the bedclothes like a dull kitchen knife. Boyd crept out of bed, groping for his slippers as his feet touched the cold floor. At the door, he stopped and fondly looked back at the motionless figure under the bedclothes, aware that he was alone in his belief that the early hours of each day were the most precious. He closed the door to the adjoining bath noiselessly, turned on the ceiling heat lamps to take the chill off, and dressed quickly. He'd laid his clothes out the night before, even his parka. Holding his boots in one hand, he went back into the bedroom and then out into the hallway. The bedclothes hadn't stirred, but the shaft piercing them was brighter. It was time to go.

In the kitchen, he put on his boots, fed the cats, and
stuffed some Clif Bars, an apple, and a bottle of water into his fanny pack. He'd eat breakfast on the trail. His skis and poles were in the mudroom, where he'd left them the previous day. Reaching for the rest of his gear from one of the shelves, he noticed a pair of boots that had been kicked off and left sprawled next to a heap of outerwear. The untidy mess was crowned by one of those Polartec court-jester hats in Day-Glo orange and blue. So, the guest room was occupied. He was tempted to pitch the stuff into the snow.

Instead, he grabbed his things, pulled the door open, and stepped outside. The cold air almost took his breath away. His annoyance vanished into the clouds of vapor from his breath. Hastily, he pulled his neck gaiter up, knowing that as soon as he got moving, he'd be peeling it off.

It was quiet. Too cold for birds. No sound except the steady schuss of his skis as he made his way through the woods, heading toward the resort. He moved effortlessly, rhythmically poling, side to side, a graceful Nordic dance. He passed the base lodge. The lifts didn't open until 9:00
A.M.
, and not even the ski patrol was up at this hour. He glanced toward the employee parking lot. Pete, the head of maintenance, was pulling in. It was a toss-up as to whether his truck outdated him or the other way around. He'd managed to keep the ski resort going since the 1960s with, as he put it, “mostly baling wire and duct tape, plus the odd piece of chewing gum.” Boyd was tempted to stop for a chat, but the mountain beckoned, so he continued on his way, climbing high up into the backcountry.

They'd had about ten inches of much-needed new
snow overnight, and he soon paused for some water, stripping off his gaiter. He'd reach the groomed Nordic trails soon. This shortcut was his secret, and even though it meant striking a trail through the powder, he wouldn't skip it for the world. The sun was rising higher in the sky. Soon it would be one of those picture-perfect Vermont snow-scene days—the sky so blue that it looked dyed like an Easter egg and, beneath it, Christmas trees dusted with frosting. No holiday could compete with the everyday sights on the mountain as far as Boyd was concerned. He'd been skiing here all his life, even before it was a resort. He and his father would ski up the mountain, pushing themselves to the limit; then there would be that long, mad, glorious run down. In some museum in Norway, he'd heard, there was a pair of skis over four thousand years old. What he and Dad had used seemed just as ancient, Boyd realized, looking down at the new Fischers he'd treated himself to in December. But what held true for those early Norsemen, and their descendants everywhere, was their addiction to the sport. Speed, endurance. It was a kick. Endorphins, adrenaline, call it what you will.

Boyd liked to ski fast, straight up or straight down. It didn't matter. That was the beauty of it. All you needed was snow. No chairlifts. No technology, unless you counted the skis, Salomon boots, carbon-fiber poles, Swix waxes, even clothing. He laughed to himself. He was wearing Craft underwear—the self-proclaimed “Apple computer of underwear”—made of some kind of miracle fiber.

Global warming was shrinking winter, and these last
few years, he'd hungered for skiing to the point of taking summer vacations in New Zealand and Australia, trying to sustain the feeling, sustain the pace.

Last March, he'd gone to Norway to ski in the Birkebeiner, a fifty-eight-kilometer race from Rena to Lillehammer. He'd wanted to do it for years, attracted as much by the story behind it as the event itself. During a period of civil unrest in Norway in the thirteenth century, the Birkebeiners, the “birch leggers,” were the underdogs and so poorly equipped that they used the bark from birch trees for boots. To keep Haakon Haakonsson, the tiny heir of the dying king, safe from the rival faction, the Baglers, two Birkebeiners took him far across the mountains to safety. It was a perilous journey to make in the winter, freezing cold, but the skiers, with the boy strapped to one of their backs, made it. He grew up to become King Haakon and defeated the Baglers, bringing the country to new heights of glory. During the annual race to commemorate the event, each skier carried an eight-pound pack to simulate the little prince. Boyd had thought he would be the oldest, but he found many far older—and in better shape—among the nine thousand entrants. It had been one of the happiest days of his life. The route was lined with cheering crowds; the skiers constituted a community unlike any other he had experienced. In Norway, skiing was as natural as breathing—and started almost at the same time. He'd go back next year.

Thinking of the Birkebeiner, he pushed himself to ski faster up the wooded trail, enjoying the ease with which his body moved, and anticipating the descent—the way the wind, his own creation, would cool his
face and clear his mind. He always did his best thinking while he was skiing. He didn't need a psychologist to tell him why. He knew the woods were where he felt the freest—and the safest. His refuge.

He thought back to the days after his parents' deaths, which had been years ago. Both had died from cancer, and only a week apart. He'd barely come inside to sleep afterward, skiing with a headlamp, determined to make sense of it all, to make amends. Should he have pressed for more chemo? Should he have moved them from this cruel climate to someplace warm, where they could have spent their last months in the sun? He tried to picture the two of them reclining next to a pool in Florida, but the only image that kept occurring was his father stubbornly chopping wood for the stove until he couldn't lift the ax anymore and his mother putting up more preserves. Boyd had eaten them for over a year afterward, her legacy: clear glass jars of brightly colored fruits and vegetables.

Rudderless. A friend had given shape to the feeling when she'd observed, “You must feel as if you've lost your rudder.” He'd found it again, but it had taken awhile. Odd to think he was now older than both of them had been when they died.

At last, he was at the top of the highest ridge, and the view was spectacular. The resort would be teeming with activity soon: lines to buy lift tickets, lines for the lifts. But up here, he was alone, although tiny tracks in the snow showed that some creature had been this way recently. He ate his apple, buried the core in the snow, drank some more water, and considered a Clif Bar. They were a bit sweet for his taste, but convenient, a
staple for Nordic skiers. Inside the wrapper, there was everything you needed in the way of vitamins, minerals, and carbs to be an Olympian. An Olympian. Like Vermont's own Bill Koch, with his silver at Innsbruck back in 1976. An Olympian. His parents would have liked that. He'd been good enough to make the team. Medals from races when he was a young boy and then a college student were shoved in a box in the attic. But he had never really liked competing—funny, since he'd ended up a lawyer. Maybe it wasn't competition, he realized, the air, as usual, crystallizing his thoughts. It was that the races didn't have anything to do with his kind of skiing. Skiing solo. Just ol' Boyd and his mountain. The experience in Norway had been an exception. Something to do once in awhile. He smiled to himself.

Emerging from the backcountry, he crossed swiftly over to the trails. One of them was named for him: Boyd's Lane. A black diamond. He'd have accepted no less.

He stood poised at the top of the trail, the curving vertical descent beckoning as seductively as a woman. He took a long drink of water and pushed off. He'd barrel down the mountain—the hell with form.

He was sixteen again; sixty—and soon seventy—was some other Boyd Harrison, not the one flying down the mountain. Not the one who couldn't resist letting out a whoop of pure joy into the sun-filled stillness of the day.

A second cry filled his throat, blocked the air, and sent him hurling into an ungainly halt by the side of the trail. The pain was as overwhelming as it was sudden.
He closed his eyes, and the blackness behind his lids threatened to take control of his entire body. This was the worst one yet. Worse than the first one—the one that had led straight to a triple bypass without passing Go. He felt as if a forklift had lowered an entire yard of bricks onto his chest.

Don't panic, he told himself, opening his eyes. The light was so glaring, he thought his head would explode. Don't panic. Get the pills. Take your nitro and you can make it down the mountain.

He reached inside his parka to the zippered pocket where he kept a small vial. He was never without it. He began to breathe more easily as he unscrewed the top and placed the small white pill under his tongue. He held another between two fingers, waiting for the first to dissolve and do its magic.

But it wasn't dissolving. He closed his mouth and breathed through his nose.

It wasn't a nitroglycerin pill; it was a mint.

Frantically, he emptied the container into the palm of his hand. All the tablets were the same—and they weren't his pills. He flung them to the ground, dropping the useless vial. Someone had switched the contents.

The pain was excruciating. He could hardly stand up. Sweat ran down his face and an uncontrollable nausea racked his body.

“Breathe, damn it!” he screamed. “You have to keep breathing!” Fear was feeding the attack; he struggled to calm down.

“You are
not
going to die,” he whispered into the stillness. No screaming. No more screaming. He'd
have to get down without the pills. He'd make it. He
had
to make it. He leaned over the skis and crouched down into a tuck position. The skis would take him. The skis would save him. They always had. It was a sure thing, like an old dog knowing the way home.

Boyd was moving, dimly aware of passing trees, boulders jutting out of the snow, trolls turned to stone at first light. There were only two thoughts in his mind: making it to the bottom, and that he knew who had done this.