A brisk wind blew leaves across the parking lot. The mountains surrounding Missoula were packed with white, the valley floor brown and lifeless. Everything was suspended in between seasons. A curtain of snow drifted across the Grant Creek drainage and plowed into Snowbowl. Bare tree branches bobbed in the gusty gales. Leaves looking for a home spun against the curb. Another blade of dried brown grass broke off and blew away hastily.
A man slowly got out of his truck and stretched in the cool morning spring air. Sauntering to the rear, he opened the topper and dropped the tailgate loudly. The bed of the truck was packed with gear. It was a rat’s nest of mish-mashed tools, one for seemingly every season. Poles and skis were strewn about. A paddle rests up against the wheel well. Two duffel bags burst at their seams, spilling forth helmets, gloves and other water repelling devices. A kayak lay lifelessly on top of the heap.
He quickly changes out of his jeans and t-shirt into fleece and a drytop. Struggling with the drytop, the rubber gaskets not yet out of their winter slumber. For a minute a headless figure battles a jacket, only to emerge with a reddened face. A few other pieces of gear are donned and he walks towards the river with his vessel.
The paddler hops down the rock steps towards the river. Only the calm eddy stands between him and the changing of seasons. The water is cold, like March water is supposed to be. The paddle blade dips into the water for its first stroke of season. The small yellow boat and its passenger slide effortlessly out onto the frothing pile. Carving and spinning in quiet. Sunday morning joggers peer down off the bridge.
Several pieces of driftwood swirl in the eddy as the paddler tries to catch his breath and rest his already tired muscles. Upper body has been weakened by months of focused leg work in the fall line. His legs feel neglected, now entombed in a plastic coffin. They long for the feeling of powder on Gore-Tex. They miss the burn of linking continuous turns down a steep tree line.
It is inevitable. Seasons change. People adapt.
