Unlike the rest of us this month, my 7-year-old son wakes up in the morning and presses his head against the window, looks outside and moans. “Why isn’t it snowing?” he cries. As the product of his reformed ski bum parents, I understand his desire for snow and the coming winter. But I try to temper his desires by reminding him we’re a long way from loading the chairlift to ski down the mountain.
Childhood is punctuated by the interminable passage of time, always waiting for something big and exciting to happen. Even when I tell Charlie that we should enjoy fall with its warm afternoons at the ready, it does nothing to speed up time. Even Halloween feels years away.
I fear my son has also inherited my sense that I’m wanting something more instead of joyfully embracing what I have in the moment. I want him to be excited for winter, but I also want him to soak up the sunshine that I know will only continue to slide into darkness. I want this for him, which is another way of saying that I want it for myself. Although, truthfully, I don’t want to encourage any snowflakes to fall from the sky just yet. I’m hungry for the Technicolor display of fall colors, savoring how the aspen and larch trees flame before their own winter retreat.
Of course, I can’t ask my kid to adopt an adult mindset (one taught by, yes, time), yet I want to encourage him as best as I can to be a little less rushed to grow up, and grasp the fleetingness of nature. It’s also an attempt on my part to find a way through a world opening Act III of climate change, and I worry that sooner than later, skiing as we know it will be an activity of the past. The balance between knowing that the climate is hotter than is sustainable and savoring these warm, cloud-free days of October is tricky. I grumble about wildfire smoke, drastically hotter summers in the mountains, and the inaction on the part of this nation’s political leaders to even address the threat of climate change and invite innovative thinking about energy, consumption and conservation. At the same time, I load up my paddleboard for what I think must surely be my last paddle on Foy’s Lake.
For Charlie, it may feel like an eternity until he slides his feet into ski boots, but one of the benefits of being a parent is that I can pull everyday magic into our days. Shall we see what happens when we try to sled down grass?
Let’s go!
Maggie Doherty is a writer and book reviewer who lives in Kalispell with her family.