Althea: A Story of Love

by Philip Rastocny

  Cross country skiing in the early 1980s was a Spartan sport with few skiers tackling extreme terrain. Most folks preferred much flatter and less aggressive slopes with shorter routes. But Althea and I preferred getting into the back country far away from these novices. Today, we planned to ski Peru Creek, a backside canyon of Arapahoe Basin in the White River National Forest. Skiing there several times before, venturing deeper into the forest each trip, this time we planned to go much further than we had ever gone.

  When straying far off of the beaten path on ungroomed trails, you are pretty much on your own and dependent on your wits and skills to keep you out of trouble. Already being accomplished back country skiers, we knew the proper procedures for staying safe during a journey this far back into the wild.

  “What a great day!” Althea said enthusiastically. Six inches of fresh powder fell last night and now in the early morning, the trail was not torn up by those troublesome inexperienced amateurs. The locals usually ventured out at dawn to catch the “best snow.” As the ruts from the tires in the parking lot proved, they had come and gone leaving nicely-forged evenly-spaced tracks in the freshly fallen snow—at least for now.

  At the very east end of the Keystone Ski Area, Montezuma Road winds south towards the town by this same name. At a “T” intersection, turning east heads back into the mountains and along this road, in a sharp right turn, was our destination. The tiny parking area off the edge of the road was not much more than a wide shoulder in the turn. Capable of holding only a few small cars, our tiny white Subaru station wagon snuggled up next to the only other car there.

  “Wait up!” I yelled as Althea sped off into the thick of the forest. “I have to rebalance my backpack. Something is not right.”

  Stopping just past the parking area, the trail led at first into a narrow canyon surrounded by a thick stand of tall lodge pole pine trees. I took off my pack and stuffed it into the snow bank next to the trail. Opening up the top, I juggled water bottles, extra layers of clothing, and zip-lock bags full of dry socks and food until the weight was low enough for the trip. The pocket on the top flap held the wax, skins for steep terrain, and other frequently accessed items. Maps, compasses, a shovel, and a spare ski tip were tucked into their usual side pockets and were fine as they were.

  “Phil?” Althea yelled from up the trail curious as to why I delayed.

  “Coming!” I yelled back as I lifted the dull green pack out of the snow and over my shoulders. This trusty pack had seen many such starts.

  The trail began in woods, then crossed the Snake River, and followed a series of broad valleys each climbing higher and higher from our ten thousand foot starting point. I caught up to Althea who was busy scanning the brush line for signs of animals. Her pack held all of her heavy camera equipment so my pack carried everything else. I would joke with her about whose pack was the heaviest, but in reality hers always seemed heavier with its long telephoto lenses and high-speed motor drive. She never skied without everything she had inside this pack. I often thought she couldn’t ski at all without it once accustomed to such a heavy load.

  It was a glorious day, partly sunny with just below freezing temperatures. The higher we climbed, the colder it got so starting with temperatures this warm assured us a comfortable day—unless a freak storm blew in.

  Cresting a hill, the trail sprawled into a long wide valley with the river gurgling along side. This year, the snow pack was very good and the chances for avalanches were also. With the fresh snow and warmer conditions, we would have to be careful about crossing avalanche chutes in the higher country.

  “Hold on a second. Let me catch up,” I yelled.

  Althea was a great skier who mastered the forward glide better than I, and as result she often left me in the dust. Her attention focused on what she saw, Althea looked at the scenery through the eyes of an accomplished photographer, constantly searching for that perfect light and composition. Her trusty Nikon and her large collection of lenses gave her great flexibility to capture what her eyes perceived in just the way she wanted.

  “Okay,” she yelled back stopping in her tracks, planting her poles along side. “I’m getting overheated anyway.

  Althea removed her gloves. The warmer weather made wearing them uncomfortable and she stuffed them into the pockets of her already unzipped goose-down jacket.

  “What do you see?” I asked pulling along side.

  “Nothing yet, just the usual stray squirrel and snow shoe rabbit,” she replied grasping the poles again in her hands. “Let’s go. We have a long way to go and I want to get back before sunset.”

  Pushing off, I quickly sped up the trail and out into the open meadow. Althea loved skiing as much as I did and out here, amidst all of the glorious white, her heart felt right at home. The sound of the swooshing snow sliding under our skis was rhythmically interrupted by the light thud of ski poles planted alongside the trail. Two even ruts wound through the meadow carrying us up and down hills and around patches of barren boulders.

  The fresh air at that altitude pulsing through your nostrils smells amazing. Laced with cedar and other coniferous plants, the pine-scented aroma was intoxicating as was the unfolding scenery. Rocks layered with deep snow looked like icing dripping off of the edge of a cake. The small river gurgled below and the sun shone brightly through the partly cloudy skies.

  I hadn’t looked back for Althea in a while, so I turned around in my tracks to see where she was. My eyes bulged out of their sockets as I saw Althea skiing topless. “What is going on?”

  “It was hot, so I thought I would try this.”

  Althea is a free spirit and loved to stretch the limits of things. I should have expected that one day I would see her ski topless, especially since we were all alone. It was warm and my own coat was wide open trying to cool down. “Um, this is a great view from here,” I said jokingly. For a woman in her late thirties, Althea’s voluptuous breasts and white skin looked incredible against the backdrop of the fresh snow and pointy peaks.

  “Don’t get any ideas,” she said inching her way closer to me. “I’m just experiencing something I’ve always wanted to do.”

  Before long, the winds picked up and we both had to put our clothes back on. I enjoyed turning back and seeing her ski, her heavy backpack pulling her shoulders square and pushing out her chest. I would miss this, but never forget it.

  “Let’s ski up to that abandoned mine and rest there for a while,” Althea said as we crested one hill. The valley ahead sprawled out wide and in the distance was the crumbling Pennsylvania Mine. At the valley’s end, the trees converged toward the stream narrowing back down to a small trail. “It’s just up ahead.”

  We continued up the valley and stopped at the abandoned mine. A small gray tailing pile and a framework of massive weather worn beams bore witness to a once hopeful prospector’s dreams. Precarious now and built in the early 1900s, the dark brown wood remained amazingly well preserved despite the relentless winds it endured over the years.

  Spreading out our small blue tarp on the snowy hillside, we opened up a bottle of wine, cracked open a bag of crackers, and sliced up some cheese. Little can compare to the feeling of freedom being so far away from civilization gives you when sipping on a good wine. We toasted to the mine and the warm sunshine that glistened off our unpretentious plastic glasses.

  The Pennsylvania Mine

  Pushing off again after the break, we reached the far end of the valley after another half hour. At one point, the groomed tracks we followed led off to the south and we were still headed east. From here on, we forged our own trail through the fresh deep snow. While steadily climbing, the trees thinned and a pristine expanse of snow lay before us.

  Trudging through the Colorado back country powder is an unbelievable skiing experience. Lighter and fluffier than a pile of dry leaves, the snow lifts at the slightest touch. Pressing down with your ski easily crushes it almost as if it were not there at all. Once compacted, it glides beneath your ski li
ke greased lightning with a swooshing sound of a figure skater’s blade on ice.

  But climbing uphill and forging a new trail is hard work. While the snow is forgiving, gravity is not. Persistently lifting your ski tips out of the snow and stomping down the tracks can be both tedious and tiring. Trading off with your partner provides some relief and allows neither person to get completely exhausted. All of the hard work you put in creating two evenly-spaced parallel tracks is returned tenfold when you turn around and go back down. Sometimes, a single push from the top will take you effortlessly all the way back to your car.

  Our hand-groomed trail led up the canyon soon coming close to the tree line. Here at well over eleven thousand feet, we paused at the edge of an avalanche chute being extremely quiet as we approached.

  “I’ll go first and when I get across, follow me,” I whispered. Pulling out my whistle, I put on my gloves, zipped up my coat, and stealthily slid across the expansive snowfield.

  As the sun heats the fresh snow, its weight increases as does the threat of an avalanche. Crossing a section of missing trees in the high country gives back-country skiers clear visual clues to the history of such events. Sudden sounds and even loud voices could potentially bring down the entire mountainside on unsuspecting and cavalier skiers.

  Althea watched as I stopped at the edge of the trees across the open snowfield. I turned and motioned for her to come and saw her cautiously climb up my newly forged trail. I turned ahead studying the rolling terrain and gauging where we should go from here. We were following an old fire road but ahead a huge snow drift across a rim of boulders blocked our way. Finding a safe route around could prove to be a challenge.

  What is Althea up to? She should be here by now. I thought as I finished evaluating the terrain. Is she topless again? Turning around, I saw her standing forward of the same place where I saw her last. She was now in the middle of the avalanche chute taking pictures of the summit through the opening in the trees. I waved my poles frantically in the air trying to get her attention but Althea was preoccupied with the clouds swirling around the snowy summit waiting for the right light.

  Holding my breath, I nervously waited until she finished. Once she did, I frantically motioned my arms for her to come. She casually waved back at me, put up her camera, and continued on up the trail as if nothing unusual had happened.

  As she finally approached, I said, “Well, did you get a good shot?”

  “I think so,” she began. “The light was washing over the southern face of that distant peak and I just had to capture it on film.”

  “You know that was a dangerous thing to do, right?”

  “Yes, but it was calling me…”

  Being taken with Kodachrome 64 film, it would be another week before we would see what caught Althea’s eye in the middle of that avalanche chute. I hoped that it would be worth the risk, and as we would soon see, it indeed was.

  The Foot of the Avalanche Chute

  Althea continued taking pictures wherever we went and with each snap of the shutter, her talent improved. With the increasing popularity of cross country skiing, we found skiing even deep into the back country quite crowded, and diverted our attention to night skiing.

  At night, everything changes on a ski trail. Although well worn from the day’s travelers, we had the entire mountain to ourselves. With headlights strapped to our hats, we could ski our favorite old trails their entire length never meeting a single soul along the way. Skiing near the full moon illuminated the trails in the open valleys almost as if it was broad daylight, and our headlamps guided us through the darker trees. Night skiing also meant Althea could not take pictures, but she found this a small price to pay for our overall enjoyment.

  A fork in the road can appear in anyone’s life suddenly and without warning. Small events combined with decisive choices can make lasting changes. For Althea, choosing to give up photography was such a choice. Without her camera, she spent almost ten years without a vehicle for releasing her pent up creativity. But one day after watching a televised program, she decided to take up painting, and her creative floodgates opened with a clear force. Finding abstract forms more accurately depictive of her inner feelings, she immediately began a series of paintings that expressed her metaphysical journey.

  Bright acrylic paints on usually oval canvases gave birth to buried memories and conveyed striking visions from intense meditations. Inspirations came from Native American themes and powerful emotions, all waiting to anxiously leap onto the welcoming canvas.

  Althea’s Traditional Art

  Her hurdle from the camera to the canvas endured, and she never returned to 35mm film. Painting opened new possibilities where much like raising a child, she could nurture and encourage each piece, coaxing her feelings into form, from its infancy to its adulthood. Finding expressions through acrylics, her art reveals those things within her not only to herself but also to all of those fortunate to be around her.

  Still dabbling in photography, the bulky 35mm film camera is a fond memory and a lightweight compact digital model has taken its place. But her obsession with looking at life through the lens has completely disappeared. She would rather feel the paint flow from the brush onto the canvas than search for that perfect moment of light and composition. She finds a comforting, warm release for her feelings in her art.

  During any extended recovery, confidence returns sometimes after agonizing repetition. Caution typically prevails steered by fears, fears of more pain or setbacks. For Althea, she was truly concerned about inadvertently reinjuring herself.

  She did not completely trust her body to respond as she wished. Often, she would think long and hard about moving from one place to another, thoughtfully rehearsing movements in her mind. While testing simple physical sequences, she discovered other unanticipated limitations. Once when trying to stand from her chair, she scooted forward to center her weight over her feet. After many attempts, she succeeded to stand but then forgot what she wanted to do after standing. Slumping back down into her chair, she reflected and—given enough time—would eventually recall the purpose of this escapade. Walking more frequently each day showed her how much of this and other related abilities she must relearn. Balance was a key issue.

  Feeling safe in her environment was equally as important as was her yearning for complete recovery. After inventorying the house, any unnecessary items were dispatched to storage far from harm’s way. Clear, wide paths and rolled up throw rugs permitted unobstructed movement with her walker. Any clutter imposing hazards were either moved or removed to minimize a potential mishap. Still unsteady while walking, firm footings and smooth surfaces provided much needed reassurance. In changing my behavior, cabinet doors I often left open were now promptly closed after each use.

  Mobile and comfortable in her own home, Althea focused on her resolve. Many things must fall into place for her complete recovery to occur. Aside from physical activity, mental stimulation helped her explore and stretch her mind. Reading daily was still a routine we enjoyed together, but comprehension of content came more slowly. As she emerged from her mental fogginess, the need to reread chapters and explain paragraphs diminished.

  I left Althea alone today for the first time since her return home. Attending a funeral service in St. Petersburg for a very close friend was important to me, and with good friends entertaining her I had little worry for her safety. Departing at nine o’clock, I put on the most respectful clothes I could find and grabbed the keys to the car. I walked over to the chair in the living room where she sat and said, “I’m leaving now, Althea. I am not sure when I will return, but you are in good hands.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine,” she said pulling me down to her and kissing me on my cheek. “Tell everyone that my heart is with them and thank them for their support.”

  “I will.”

  The ceremony was a wonderful life celebration of a distinguished man who helped build the church from its foundation. Numerous people testified to his ch
aracter and brilliance and I said my last goodbye to a dear soul. Relaying Althea’s well wishes to friends, I returned to my car and started the long drive back home.

  Returning home at about four o’clock, I found Althea had a wonderful day. She played cards and games with her friends. Then, she pointed to a canvas I had not noticed sitting on top of the speaker in the living room. It was a new painting!

  “That’s wonderful,” I said walking over and admiring her work. “What did it feel like to pick up your brushes?”

  “I was a little unsteady and it’s not the best I’ve done,” she said pointing to the straighter brush strokes and shorter lines. “When I dabbed the paint on the tip of the brush, waves of emotions flooded my hand and arm each time I moved it toward the canvas. I was quite overwhelmed by this.”

  I went to her and we became tearful together. I was so happy to see she was painting again and I see her recovery is starting to snowball. It’s as if she put her recovery into overdrive and she is now cruising along in high gear. To me, it didn’t matter what the painting looked like; I was grateful her ability was still there. I was glad to see her return to the art form she so loved.