I am at the top of a mountain, not some metaphoric mountain but Leogang in the Austrian Tirol. The hangover shakes have begun rattling through the small bones in my wrist. All the muscles in my legs feel liquefied, packed into the ferocious blender of ice and snow, a cocktail of gristle and marrow. The cool, rising bubbles in my Steigl help like ants carrying dock leaves to nurse my head and legs. They walk down my oesophagus without impediment. I cross my arms and my back clicks back into place. I fit the coffin perfectly; my sarcophagus is tailored to the size of my thick winter jacket and ski boots. Outside the windowpane, all is white. Distance is a white void. Then, like the big bang’s burst of effluvium, reds and blacks and gross yellows float out of the void. The skiers gracefully fall in an effort-filled decline. The sound of crunching and compacting snow and the shrill squeals of men being men and women being men and sometimes being women as the avalanche of bodies disappears back into the nothing.
I have fifteen euro left for Steigl, I will be out of pocket in five beers time but at least ready to brave the wilderness again. The snowfall has begun to diminish and outside the lodge a girl fell flat on her face and doesn’t get up. A few minutes later, two neon skiers click out their skis and ran over to help her up. The girl, bloody faced; smiled or grimaced and they fell with dignity further down the mountain.
