Tuesday, January 15, 2008

The ASPECT Journal

For those of you interested in skiing, the mountains, or just good writing, check out The Aspect Journal. It's an online publication devoted to grassroots ski writing, exploring the various aspects of skiing and skiing culture through storytelling. There is a short story section, a long story section, and a theme section. I love reading the short stories; they don't take much time out of a busy schedule but make me remember why I do what I do... they really capture the passion and personality that is prevalent in the sport of skiing.

Check it out at www.aspectjournal.com, or click on the link on the right hand side of my blog.


Here is one of my favorite pieces from the short stories section.



The Call
The annual softening of a harsh modern world.
By R. ALAN KUEHN

Summer lingers before the fade begins. Before senses become filled with the change that overcomes the mountain. It is childlike and primal. It is without fault and full of wonder. It is innocence incarnate. Somewhere, sometime late in August one feels the change while still sweating on the line or hiking a trail. Far north it begins, up in Alaska. The cold builds and gathers before the push, the march to the lower 48.

I don't recall exactly when it was I felt it first. Early in years. Walking forest paths and mountain trails with my father. Looking upwards to him and the peaks above timberline beyond. Wanting so much to go with him on his hikes to Tuolumne meadows in those years before one could drive there. The granite above the valley calling me even then. But the true siren was higher still, beyond the glacier polished walls and soft flow of the Merced. I know it was early in life and has persisted since.

The call. Vibrations maybe more than actual sounds. They penetrate flesh and mind to travel to heart and soul. It is felt more than anything else. Waking cold and peering out frosted windows. The smile widens at the sight still. Transformation and silence. Harsh edges of a modern world softened. Now, so much older it is the squeak of boots on sharply frozen crystals in the last few minutes before dawn. The reassuring click of boots locking into bindings. The squeaking of metal as the toe piece of my Fritchis move up and down...up and down... Pole plants in the almost-darkness. Nothing but the wind and my heart pounding blood to awakening muscles. Body alive. There is a scent from the snow and the firs and hemlocks as they stand in dormancy for the season. Old partners now. We nod at each other. A gloved hand with pole waves at branches that do the same. It is the wind too. Sometimes soft and caressing as the touch of a lover. Other times piercing. Testing. Hard. Still cared for and loved.

It pulls me inside it. And below voices begin to echo up the bowls and ridges. Motors turn cables that pull chairs into the gray of the storm. It is the embrace of these mountains. They that have called to me and held me and watched me grow. It is winter. It will linger well into summer before the fade.




1 comment:

mtnbikerskierchick said...

I love short stories too with my busy schedule. It's funny how much inspiration can come from a well-written short story. Novels are always nice, but not always necessary. I commend the art of th short story, as I always find things difficult to say in a choice amount of words. The story you shared is fantastic. :)