The Age of Adventure

The unwritten rules of ageing and adventure

The meadows were thick with spring, and the dry March air was heavy with the scent of cow shit and cut wood. Above us, an old tractor chugged and gurgled as it clung to the steep contours of the empty summer pasture; behind it, a shower of bovine excrement blasted into the fresh mountain breeze. I check the sky, they must be expecting rain.

Earlier that morning, we had driven the gorge-cut road past the grey-pink cliffs to the small Austrian village of Alpbach, here somewhere 100 meters or so above the jaunty streets of wooden chalets, newly bloomed crocuses had arrived early. The meadowed slope is greened with shifting seasons, emerald-rich in the valley, graduating to muted sage where the coarse spindles have been snow-crushed and drenched. Just above the forests of larch and pine, snow clings to the north slopes and hides in the shadowed divets; there will be no more snow this year. Nature will not wait for us.

It was last November when my dad phoned to ask if I would visit them. I have grown accustomed to this language, to his coded phrases of need, so I knew that on arrival, there would be a request; it would begin with "Can you just..." But today wasn't about a new mop or flickering light; the question that came was, ‘Bel, I'd like to see if I can still ski.’

I know that 'to see if I can still ski' is about much more than sport; it is about moving amongst mountains, it is escaping the crushing stillness and safetyism that we all have come to expect in old age. 'To ski' is about raging against the dying dream of adventure.

It is a bluebird day as we arrive in the car park next to skiers who look skywards to the summits. The rain has passed, and the light has a luminosity that merges mist and snow. Above the snowline is a tonal simplicity of rock, tree, and whiteness, a calmness. Inhaling deeply, I watch as my dad tightens his boots. I have been dreading this moment.

This is not how we used to be in the mountains. We were explorers, ski tourers, and mountaineers. We were adventurers, seekers, and non-conformists. We were the ones who turned our backs on resorts and mechanisation and headed into the distant white landscape.

For so many years, the gravitational pull of mountains cast my family into the hidden places of Europe, to the valleys, the alms, and the pastures; it swung any sense of traditional childhood into the margins; this is who we were as a family. How, then, do we belong when we grow old. Who do we become when the landscapes that found us, built us and shaped us only highlight our immobility and mortality. When the sense of self evaporates with the passing of time.

Today, I look into my dad's almost 88-year-old face, his age hidden behind a look of determination. He bends stiffly and tightens the orange ski boots he bought on his 80th birthday. He looks small and uneasy.

There is a sadness in the clunk and click of their plasticky lock; this is undoubtedly the last pair he will own, and perhaps soon, maybe today, they will be worn for the last time, relegated to the pile of our pasts. I want to be the one who celebrates his tenacity and his bravery, but instead, I am willing for him to change his mind, hoping he will say he won't go, desperate to protect him from being broken, but I know these are words I can never speak.

In my head, I work through a tick list of unwritten rules: don't ski on bad days, don't ski if you feel ill, don't ski alone, rules that protect, bind, and restrict; this is not how we live, and this is not who he taught me to be.

We carry his skis to the snow; I turn away and squint. He doesn't procrastinate as I would; he glides away into the crowd of multi-coloured skiers and goggled-adorned helmets. Just before he falls from vision, he stops; he looks to the valley; his eyes trace the summits of the dappled green-black forests of his past. His shoulders drop, and his head raises. I know that here, the world makes sense; it reminds him of who he is. I know because that was his gift to me.

The look of determination does not fall from his face until we return to the car park. There, he sits on the boot of the car and looks up. Tiredness has not yet drained the blood from his legs or soaked through old bones. He turns to me and smiles. Memories of my dad ski touring, silhouetted against the morning sun, flick like a picture show through my mind. The man who cast the shadow that my sister and I followed unquestioningly into the mountains stands beside me; he still dreams of adventure.

That afternoon I watch a blackbird building a nest behind the old wooden shutters. The pine slats, cut and carved to offer protection from cold and snow, now hold the promise of a home, a shelter for the bird's young. She collects moss and releases the feathered strands of green; the sun-filled alpine air holds each momentarily before they float and settle on the patio below. Soon, threads of moss lie across the slate tiles like splashed paint. She is relentless. The bird does not concern itself with failure, risk or what-ifs; it has a purpose and a dream.

My dad comes over to where I am watching the bird. We sit silently together as the light of the setting sun transforms the summit tops from soft pink to ice blue. When the daylight has fallen behind the western peaks, he turns to me and says,' I've checked the weather; I think we should go cycling tomorrow.'