Sunday Morning.


My Church.

What can a Sunday morning mean to those of us who dismiss the naïve certainties and empty ritual of institutional religion and flaky spiritualism, yet remain aware that being human is in some essential sense the process of creating meaning. When and what are we going to create?

Sunday. A day like any other, yet loaded with the baggage of my European Christian cultural heritage. Drawn together organically, by common purpose rather than any formal organization, we gather on Sunday mornings, to ski or ride depending on the season, and sometimes we even declare that these mountains are our church. A good natured jibe at those who would gather in actual churches at this time (though I hardly know anyone that does), part affirmation to ourselves and each other that we have made superior choices, and perhaps an acknowledgement that this is for us a ritual. A ritual that we can claim as our own, that at least for a little while answers the unanswerable questions we all have. What is this thing called life all about?

The coastal mountains of Alaska are subject to specific combination of weather that makes for exceptional skiing. Storms off the ocean dump snow at mild temperatures, which adheres to the steepest of slopes. Often this is followed by cold continental air which sucks out the moisture from the surface of the snow, creating ideal conditions for skiing deep light powder on steep terrain. We’ve had a version of the some phenomena in the Rossland Range recently, and this morning the steep lines were about as good as it gets.

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3 Comments

Filed under Backcountry

3 responses to “Sunday Morning.

  1. gid

    Enlightening! Nicely said.

  2. Christopher Morris

    Your blog is usually great, and I always look forward to reading it, so why diss other people’s choices?

    • Christopher,

      Perhaps what I wrote did not come across as intended. I was trying to reveal the irony of rejecting one value system, only to faced with the need to create another, equally arbitrary. Just musing on the paradox of the human condition, no dissing intended.

      Stewart.

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