[ WP ] Your Father owns a small chain of ski resorts , and one of the oldest locations has gone belly up . In the month after closing you secretly begin turning on the lifts for just yourself . One day you become aware of how alone you are . On the side of a mountain that nobody has reason to visit .

It did n't seem real for for the first half of winter. It was just like closing up for summer, only it had n't gotten warm yet. I packed away the cottages, and closed up the lodge and settled into the caretaker's house, moving around in a bubble of unreality. At the beginning of February, I went up to work on the ski-lift motors and, impulsively, I threw the switch. I stood at the base for a few minutes, watching the chairs cycle against the empty sky, creaking in the cold, and, after a moment, walked over to the mount and parked myself on one of them. It began to climb, slow and steady, with a light breezes rocking it. I stared out over the mountain. 
 
 I grew up here, you know. Dad's owned this place since 1976. I was born in Montreal but my first memories are the chalet in the 80s, toddling after my dad, weaving in and out of legs clad in furry boots. I can remember the slightly metallic smell of mittens drying on the radiator, mingling with Cookie's stews and hot chocolates. I think I could ski before I could walk. When we decided to close up, I figured it was just temporary. This mountain would come back into fashion and everything would be back to normal. The Tremblant location was hardly going to take precedence; this one was historic. 
 
 But sitting there on the lift, staring out over the empty slopes, I looked into the future. The mothballed lodge would slide into disrepair. The cottages would become home to various mountain wildlife; raccoons would nest in the mattresses. Ungroomed, the trails would grow over and disappear and the chair lift would idle, rusting, as the treetops reached up to meet it. I would rattle around here like the last pea in a can for a few years, clinging to my youth as my parents aged and retired on other mountains. Unable to arrest the decline, I'd stop shaving my legs and cutting my hair and I'd snowmobile into town for supplies every few weeks and hole up in the caretaker's house, dreaming of better days until one day my brother's kids retrieved me and put me in a home. I would live out - 
 
 What was that? 
 
 I twisted around, trying to lay eyes on the movement in the corner of my eye. The chair bobbed precipitously; if I was honest, this lift had needed repair for years. Suddenly I felt small and distant, alone on the mountain. My heartbeat quickened, but the chair settled again, and continued its clanking journey to the top. The wheelhouse came into view, its sloped shanty roof giving it an uneven, drunken appearance. What was I doing up here? 
 
 Movement again. 
 
 I twisted slower this time, and the chair remained steady, except for an ominous groan at its hinge. Halfway up the mountain, a deer stepped out from between the pines. She was a handsome doe, tall and elegant, and she picked her way across a snowdrift as I watched, her head up, ears alert. 
 
 My toes bumped ground and instinctively, I stood away from the lift and took two steps so it would n't bowl me over. I stood there staring at the deer for a long time, and after a few minutes, a massive stag emerged next to her. His antlers were enormous and he stood stock still, like he'd been transformed into a tree and pinecones might start sprouting from him. The wind at the top was stronger and as I stood there, it began to sting my face and I realized I was crying. There were other resorts and other mountains, but this had been my home and I mourned its closure as if it had burned to the ground. Around me, a light flurry began to swirl as this grief gripped my chest and, without really meaning to, I cried out into the silence. It echoed down the mountain and the two deer bolted as if it had been a gunshot. Alone in the empty white void, I wept for the childhood behind me and the changed future ahead. The snow, uncaring, continued to fall.
