Chairlift: The in-between time

May 1—We've entered the season when the chairlift doesn't spin. From the closing day of the ski hill until the opening day of the mountain's summer activities, the lift is still. No low rumble of the motor, no gentle swing of the chair, no friendly smiles from your favorite liftie.

That first few weeks after the last day of skiing, many of us feel at a loss. The chair has stopped and so too, it seems, our "normal" way of life. It's often too cold and muddy to bike. Sometimes we can feel as idle as the chairlift.

Skis, boots and poles are stashed and the coats, gaiters and mittens, washed and stowed. We pack away our ski socks and break out the running and cycling socks. Some brave souls begin to dress without a long underwear layer.

I imagine some people use this in-between season to tackle spring cleaning and address some tasks that were easily deferred during the ski season.

Each year, a kind of sadness creeps in upon seeing the snow disappear from the mountain. The onset of spring isn't unexpected or unusual, but it still feels like a loss when large brown patches overtake the once blank white expanse.

For many of us, the uncertainty and loss of routine inherent in the in-between is uncomfortable. We feel edgy, antsy, angsty. After so many orbits around the sun, surviving some seasons and celebrating others, we still get on edge about change.

Others, like my friend Jane, thrive in the atmosphere of the in-between. She does not hold tightly to what's become comfortable and does not fear the unknown around the corner. Maybe she fears it a little bit, but the thrill of learning something new overshadows any trepidation.

She spent many winters caretaking a casita and guiding fly fishing trips in Mexico. Upon returning to her home in Red Lodge, Montana, she often strikes out on other adventures. This winter, she drove to the deep South to visit family and now, having been back only a week, is making plans for a road trip to Nova Scotia.

Personally, I have a harder time letting go of things that have become familiar. Sunday, I skinned the Benny Up trail. There was a long stretch without snow at the top of the first pitch, which required me to remove the skis and hike, and the snow, even on higher pitches, was a bit slushy.

When I slid backward one too many times, it was clear that the mountain was saying goodbye to me. When I began my cautious descent, I realized ski season was over and it was time to switch gears and welcome spring.

So, thank you winter, it was fun, and howdy spring, let's get running and rolling.