“Hey, I better get going. There’s some catastrophic storm hitting the mountain tonight, and I need to get my horses situated.”
“I did see the numbers for the storm. Should be a great weekend with all that fresh powder. I can’t wait to see you race, Ford.”If only I could go out and ski it without being questioned by every reporter known to man.
“It will be. And they are going to be working around the clock to groom the racetrack for our competition.” I peered out the window at the training arena not too far off. The best thing for me was to keep my head out of the drama and focus on the game.
“Don’t talk to any reporters. I think it’s best that we keep your name out of the paper, lest they come sniffing you out and distracting you during your training. I know you have nothing to hide, Ford. Let’s just stay focused and keep anything associated with your name as the driver to buy tickets, not to investigate. This will die down. Sadly, while it seems a huge deal to us, there’s nothing anyone can do aboutpastallegations. Only the current suspicions, and right now, everyone is behaving like a perfect angel. It will blow over before the games. I mean it.”
“I agree. If I wanted my name in the paper, I would buy the entire front page of theNew York Times.”We hung up, and I felt relieved to not be associated with any more drama than I already was.
The day went by as expected. Giant storm incoming, frantic skiers trying to get there despite the roads threatening to close, and all of the chalets in the row of mine were certainly booked up. I expected to start seeing guests arriving by the handfuls. But that far, only the one next to me appeared to be occupied, as I saw the car pull into the driveway. Before I could see who got out, my computer chimed. I grudgingly went to see what it was, expecting it to be a request for an interview. I was pleasantly surprised that my favorite ski brand wanted to do apartnership deal. I let out a huge sigh of relief; that was what I needed to distract me from everything else I had going on.
I weighed the pros and cons, considering my upcoming retirement decision: Would agreeing to take a deal in light of what was to come of my career be misleading? I looked at the offer again; there was nothing in it regarding skijoring. In fact, it was a brand that made the best of the best powder skis. They didn’t want Ford Prescott the skijoring champion; they wanted Ford Prescott the cowboy skier. The proposed partnership included pictures of me on skis, on a snowy mountain, wearing head to toe denim and a cowboy hat. It was actually a really fun premise, and I decided to go for it.
After I let Jack know that I was interested in the ski partnership, I went out to my kitchen to make an afternoon pick me up; a strong cup of coffee. It didn’t matter what time of day or night; I could slam enough caffeine to power a freight train and still sleep soundly. It was a gift that I didn’t take for granted, as I loved a nice, dark brew with rich, earthy notes and just a splash of raw cream. It was how we used to drink coffee on the ranch in Big Horn, Wyoming where I grew up, and there wasn’t a day that went by that I didn't recall the memories fondly.
Taking my brew to the window, I saw the woman who I assumed was my neighbor for the week. She was lugging bags over her shoulder and placing a pair ofStockliskis out in the snow.She has excellent taste,I thought, as I wondered where her husband was to carry all that heavy stuff in for her? Then, I saw it: a fluffy, beige dog in a bright green sweater, marking its territory in the white snow. From here, I couldn’t quite make it out, but it appeared that the dog was wearing two tufts of hair on her head like pigtails. A smile crossed my face, immediately shaken off.Stay focused, Ford.I can’t afford any distractions right now. Or ever, for that matter. As the clouds started to roll in, I knew I better get to the horses.
If it wasn’t for the tinted windows on my white Ram 3500 truck, it might have blended into the snow. I supposed the fact that it was covered in sand from the town of Sage Mountain, furiously working to prevent a tourist sliding into another car, helped my case, too. After arriving at the barn and arena, I scanned my card to get in the security gate. Inside, my horses Whiskey, Buckshot, and Outlaw ran up to inspect the pockets on my jacket for carrots or horse cubes.
“Hold your horses, guys.” I smirked at my own joke. “I have plenty for everyone.” All of them seem to have a talent forthe dramatics. I pulled out a bag of long carrots and started handing them out as I gave everyone a quick inspection. “Who wants some fresh air?” I turned to open the gate of their corral, and they quickly ran out the barn doors. The only thing my horses loved more than carrots was fresh snow; they’d been like that since they were colts. Curious and playful. And I bought them each based on that fact. “Tonight, we're getting lots of fresh powder,” I told them, as they stretched their legs, not a single one acknowledging my words. Whiskey and Buckshot ran back in to get a drink from the trough, as Outlaw came back over to me to see about another carrot.
Off in the distance, I saw movement at the chalets. The woman that was my neighbor was holding something under her arm like a football; I surmised it was the dog, now wearing a pink bodysuit of some kind. I looked away, an annoyed smirk forming on my lips. “Tourists,” I mumbled under my breath. “Say what you want about them, but they are entertaining,” I said to Outlaw, who couldn’t care less about my words, just wanted the carrots in my hand. His velvety, wet nose tickled my skin as he gobbled up the last of them.
Back home, I was seasoning a ribeye steak when I got a news alert on my phone. Somehow, the technology on myphone thought that I wanted to know when articles from every armpit of the internet mentioned my name. I glanced at it, not reading the headline, but seeing the image was of my ex, Poppy, and her boyfriend, Trent. She was wearing a white veil, white dress, and he was in a tuxedo. I pushed the phone away, underestimating my own strength. It slid off the counter onto the hardwood floor, shattering the screen. A feeling of relief washed over me: if my phone was broken, I had a very good reason to ignore everyone coming my way. I powered it off, screen unreadable, and the phone went dark. I’d send Jack an email tomorrow morning that I’d be out of touch until further notice, but for that night, I’d be there, trying not to think about the fact that Poppy was married, and how that article somehow mentioned me in passing.
That door had been closed for quite some time. Despite nearly a year passing since she spoke those relationship-killing words,“I’m in love with someone else,”I hadn’t found a reason to put myself back out there.
It hadn’t been because of a lack of interest, I was blessed to say. I’d had several women contact me for dating but called me old fashioned—I wanted to be the one who pursues the woman. In this day and age of everything being online, thatwas challenging, but I’d opted out of online dating or social media profiles of any kind. I wanted to lay low and let things happen naturally.
Naturally.A year or more ago, I would have scoffed at that thought. I did everything I could to win Poppy’s attention, and she was nothing but mind games. The relationship wasn’t ordained by God in the slightest.Sigh.There I went again, reliving past hurts. I considered praying. An urge that hadn’t passed me in quite some time. But the moment I closed my eyes, I started thinking about the shame of my past choices once again, and I felt further from God than ever.
A long time ago, I read a verse about when we repent, God forgives our mistakes and never thinks of them again. Yet, I couldn’t figure out how God could forgive me when I couldn’t even forgive myself.
The snowflakes started to fall steadily, and I watched them from my favorite picture window. My chalet had the best view out of the whole row; they all backed up to an aspen grove, but mine had a small creek that moose would frequent. Each chalet had some elbow room—a requirement for anywhere I live is that I not be on top of my neighbors, since I was used to livingon a ranch in rural Wyoming. No, these chalets were good, I thought. A swift knock at the door plucked me out of my gaze.
My favorite thing about the twenty-first century is contactless grocery delivery. Sure, I missed the days when I could go into a store and shop without being recognized. These days, it went so much further. Everyone assumed that since they recognized my face or bought a sponsored product, they had untethered access to me with no boundaries required. I may be a rough and tough Wyoming born and raised cowboy, but I also have feelings. They were just deeply recessed at the moment.
I put away my bags of groceries and plucked a pint of vanilla ice cream out of the freezer to thaw for dessert. I would end the night as I always did, watching a movie that reminded me of something that brought me calm, usually an old western, and trying to avoid everything else that didn’t.
The next morning, I awoke to my favorite childhood pastime: an abundance of snow, covering every surface with its thick, heavy powder. It looked like a blanket had been put out over the entire resort. Suddenly, my feet felt an itch to ski that I could barely ignore. The runs were going to be fantastic today. I reached for my phone to check the snow gauges before remembering it was broken, while I wrestled with the decisionif I wanted to risk being recognized. I thought I could wear my helmet with the most coverage. But that wouldn’t cover up my very distinct chin dimple or scar on my jaw. My black jacket that zipped up over my chin would be an option. But what if it slipped? Then, it dawned on me: I had a half-face gator with a cheesy tiger face on it that I got at a white elephant party last year. That was the perfect disguise for me to enjoy my ski day.
It took me a minute to find skis that I hadn’t done a product deal with, as those pairs had my name engraved on them as a gift from the company. Sorting through my garage, I found a pair of Atomic skis that I got as a graduation gift nearly a decade ago. They were barely used powder skis, and just what I needed for all of this fresh snow. Stepping out of my chalet, I saw my neighbor leaving a few moments before me. I held back just a second, mostly so I didn’t end up in a conversation.
Coincidentally, my neighbor—whom I reminded myself did not know I’d seen her, who I was, or that it was me under this mask—she and I ended up in the same bright red gondola. The second one of the day, I admired her commitment to skiing. The rest of the group was chatting eagerly, and I attempted to hold my breath when my name was brought up, lest someone realize I was sitting right there. I just sat still, not trying to get anyone’sattention. As I sat across from my neighbor, I couldn’t help but notice how beautiful she was. Her thick, brown hair was braided on one side and poking out of her white helmet: the fleeting brightness of the sun revealing golden hues. Her goggles, pulled up on her helmet, were bright purple, which added some much-needed color on a snowy day like today. But it was her icy blue eyes that gripped me. As we reached the top, I saw her shiny lips smirking at something. If it had been just us and no other riders who definitely knew who I was, I would’ve asked her what was funny. But for now, I let it go.
I couldn’t get out of the gondola soon enough. Every time I closed my eyes, I kept seeing her; a vision I didn’t want nor need for distraction. This woman was trouble with a capital T, and I would do everything in my power to avoid her. I just needed to get through this storm and the Winter Games.
Skiing was the adrenaline rush I didn’t know I needed. As I carved through the tougher and ungroomed territory, I found few people on the same trails with me. The clouds gave way to the most beautiful blue skies and for a moment, I lifted my goggles and pulled down the neck gator and felt the warmth on my face. Two snowboarders came ripping up behind me where I was stopped mid-trail—an etiquette of being out on theslopes that you’d never want to break—so I quickly moved off to the side, hoping they didn’t stop to see me or to talk. They didn’t. I released my breath.
Call me paranoid, but when your sport is the biggest news story on all of the major news networks, and I’d been fortunate to be considered the face of Skijoring, it doesn’t feel good to be constantly stopped and questioned. Especially with my ex-fiancé getting married and my name being brought up in such articles; I just wanted to lay low.
With a zest of joy and tired legs, I finished the day a few minutes before the last chair, and instead of taking the gondola, I skied down a back way and came out near my horses. A farm gate was the only thing keeping me from being able to ski all the way to my house from there; one that I didn’t have a key to. So, after unclipping my skis and awkwardly filling the corral with hay via pitchfork in my ski boots, I made sure the horses had fresh water in their trough and walked the rest of the way home with my skis slung over my shoulder. The snowflakes were starting to ramp up again, and since I was no longer moving at high speeds as I worked my way down mountain trails, the cold caught up to me. By the time I reached my chalet, Icould barely punch the numbers into my garage keypad to throw my skis inside.
Peeling off a few layers of my ski clothes, I left my black henley undershirt and ski pants on while I threw a few logs into my wood stove. Call me old fashioned, but I can’t stand gas fireplaces. There’s something that I find incredibly wrong about having a fire started with the click of a button. Sure, everything else in my chalet was top of the line—just like the other nine in this row of ten. But this was something I couldn’t budge on, and I didn’t let them put that faux-wood monstrosity in there. Stoking the roaring fire, it began to crank out the heat, so I went to the kitchen and figured out what I could make. The grocery delivery brought so many options, but I didn’t really feel like cooking; rather, something fast. Lazy. So, I made a sandwich.
I was halfway done with the meal when the power began flickering. Stopping my bite mid-chew, I waited a few moments, and it came back on. I finished my ham and cheese when it went off again. The beeping of my generator was a relief; it kicked all of my power back on, gloriously shining throughout the house. I went around and flipped lights off, wanting to conserve what I could in the meantime. Looking out my front window, I saw a very unusual sight to the left of me; the womanfrom next door, grabbing bundles of wood that were stacked outside, while her little dog sniffed around the pavement. The dog on the leash was as far away from her as it could get before she motioned with her head for it to come back inside, to which the little dog minded and went back over to her. But they didn’t go inside. She dropped the wood after a moment, picked up her dog, and disappeared.
Sitting on the couch, I thought of all the places she might have gone on foot with a little dog in a pink coat in this brewing storm and cold front. Before my phone broke, my weather app said tonight was going to reach record lows. Running my hands through my hair, I realized I needed to go out and see if this woman needed help. Every year, tourists get rescued from danger on this mountain, but tonight, it might have been happening right in my backyard. As I stood up to put my ski layers back on, a knock at the door caught me by surprise.
