In May 2011, I drove five hours from Los Angeles to Mammoth Mountain by myself because no one I knew in LA wanted to ski. At the time, I had recently moved from New York. I work in fashion. My life revolves around deadlines, shoots, and special events, but skiing is my escape. It’s the thing that makes me feel most like myself, and I could do it more easily from Los Angeles than I could from New York; I just needed someone to do it with.
Someone in town recommended a restaurant called Novatos. It was one of those local places where everybody seemed to know everybody else. I sat alone at the bar and ordered dinner. Three men were sitting beside me. One of them was named Bernie.
I wasn’t looking for a relationship. Honestly, I wasn’t even looking for romance. I was mostly hoping to meet a local friend—someone who loved the mountains and might want to ski. Bernie drove snowcats for Mammoth Mountain. To skiers, snowcats are almost mythical. They’re the giant machines you see grooming the mountain at night, moving through the darkness beneath the lights. Before he left, he handed me his phone number. “Come back next season,” he said. “I’ll take you for a ride in the snowcat.”
Bernie was just somebody who “belonged in the mountains.”Photo: Christian Pondella
The next day I texted him and asked if he wanted to ski. His response surprised me. “It looks cold,” he said. “I don’t ski if I have to wear a coat.” I remember thinking: What kind of mountain guy doesn’t ski if he has to wear a coat? I convinced him to meet me for a drink before I drove back to LA. We met at a place called Rafters. I was the only person there. When he walked in, he looked at me and said, “I didn’t remember what you looked like, but my friend said he would meet you so I thought I would too.”
We had a drink. I drove home. End of story, or so I thought. The next day he called. “If you come back this weekend,” he said, “I’ll give you a lift ticket and cook you dinner.” You don’t have to ask a skier twice. The next weekend we were riding a chairlift together when Bernie asked me about my ski ability. I brushed him off. “I’ll be fine,” I said. Then he asked if I wanted to ski through the terrain park. I told him I didn’t ski jumps. A few minutes later, he casually skied into the park and started doing tricks. I remember staring at him. Wait. You’re that good? That was the moment I realized this wasn’t some fair-weather skier who avoided coats. This was somebody who belonged in the mountains. Not long after, Bernie left for Australia, where he spent northern summers chasing southern winters. When I dropped him at the airport, he looked at me and said, “Don’t find another mountain man.”
Five days later, I saw on Facebook that he seemed to have an Australian girlfriend. I figured that was that. For the next several years, our relationship lived in the background of our lives. We’d run into each other. My fashion career took me all over the world. Bernie’s skiing took him all over the world. Most of our conversations weren’t about romance. They were about where we’d been and where we were headed next.
