Life in white

“What are you doing?” she asks, standing on her toes, leaning inquisitively over the edge of the workbench.
“I’m setting these up especially for you, so on one else can use them.” I smile. They’re the smallest pair I could find, 80cm, and nearly taller than she is.
I write her name in a flourish on them and hand them over. She shrieks; hugging the skis she runs to the counter. It’s her first time skiing today.
My manager gives me the nod for lunch.
“Good skiing today” he offers, looking wistfully out the window. He’s been here almost as long as the resort; I’ll take his word.
This winter I escaped the routine, joining the hordes of young foreigners in the Canadian Rockies who clamour each year for underpaid positions at ski resorts seeking the famous “Champagne Powder”.
The North American resort village is a new concept for me, charming wooden cabins, steeped with nostalgia; black-and-white photographs, old wooden skis and wrinkled trail maps, crackling open fireplaces and old downhill racers huddling round laughing, drinking thimble sized glasses of schnapps to ward off the cold under the strings of little flags adorning the bars for the Olympic Games. If you care to join them, they all have a tall tale to tell, about the “biggest dump ever” or secret spots still kept secret. After an hour you’ll still be no wiser.
I’ve never lived in the snow before. Today it is quietly snowing, falling straight down, adding calmness and novelty to a landscape that the old skiers don’t seem to notice. A deep snow pack smothers everything, pine trees strain with heavy white arms, occasionally shrugging off the load in loud relief. It smells like Christmas.
My footsteps are muted on the freshly covered paths. I decide I’m overdue to sample a Canadian curiosity, Poutine.
The chef dumps a mountain of French fries on a plate without much finesse; then sprinkles a handful of sour looking cheese curds. To finish, the lot is smothered with an oversized ladle of curdling gravy. Would I like salt and pepper? Sure, let’s not be shy. It looks severely regurgitated, zero points for presentation right there.
I carefully extract and inspect my first soggy chip, complete with gooey strand clinging defiantly to the plate. I stuff it in my mouth quickly…strangely chewy. The first layer is the comforting aromas of the gravy, followed by the firm saltiness of the chip.
“Not too bad…”
I hazard another, this one drowning in an ooze of hardening yellow cheese like an insect caught in tree sap. It adds a zing, a new dimension of flavour. I quickly opt for a two-handed approach until the plate is empty, wiping up the last spots of gravy. Surprisingly good! I feel wrapped in a savoury blanket, ready to head outside.
I check my watch, time enough for one lap. My nostrils sting from the invisible menacing cold, I had better get moving, could be good skiing today…