The strike was entering its fourth month when a massive snowfall descended on Sparwood. Our school bus fishtailed up Ponderosa Drive and we could hear the driver swearing at the tires spinning on the road. Everywhere was white; only the tire tracks in front of the bus showed us the way.

When Bea and I got home, we saw Father out front shovelling snow, the exhaust from his car billowing heavily.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

Father gave each of us a hug and announced, “I’m taking you skiing!”

“Yay!” Bea and I cried in unison.

Father’s enthusiasm was buoyed by the 1988 Olympics being hosted in Calgary. We were mere hours away from the excitement and had seen the Olympic flame come through our town. My classmate Jason had boasted that he’d touched the torch and swore never to wash his ski mitten ever again.

Mother watched us pile into the car. “My ankle’s not doing so well. I think I better stay home,” she said.

The snow sparkled beneath the street lights. Once we hit the highway, the headlamps highlighted the dancing white specks before us. As we passed the Heights exit, I realized we weren’t going to Sparwood Ski Hill, where Father taught himself how to ski and where he brought us down the hill between his legs when we were preschoolers. It was only once a year that he took us to the big mountains in Fernie.

While we waited for the chairlift, I marvelled at the strength of the tree branches around me. A foot of snow had collected upon each branch, yet they were bravely carrying these wet, heavy loads, sagging from the weight, as if they were wearing beautiful, full gowns of lustrous silk, lace, and tulle. Each was unique, with some donning short, stiff tutus and others draped in more elaborate robes. Sequined white confetti gave flair to the fashion show.

As the chair climbed into the air, I saw people below gracefully shifting from side to side with their poles guiding them forward. My breath was taken away by how high up we were, how small the skiers looked. A boy took a jump and fist-pumped in the air when he landed. Father swatted his thigh, pointed down at the hill, and exclaimed, “Did you see that?” Bea and I both nodded and said, “Wow!”

“Let’s find that jump on the way down,” Father said.

As we hopped off the chairlift, Father slid down the hill backwards. I laughed watching him swing around effortlessly, beckoning us to chase him. Bea whizzed by, and I pushed my skis from side to side, propelling my poles in front of me to grab the snow, gaining momentum. The cold air kissed my cheeks as we zoomed by other skiers. I tucked into a racer position, bending my knees to try to catch up to Father. Bea, to my left, copied me, and we raced down, determined to reach him.