At the cornice

Self-portrait, pandemic isolation at sunset.

In 1969 my sisters took me to Mammoth Mountain to go skiing over Christmas break. The mountain got 32 feet of snow that year, so skiiers on the lifts had to raise their legs in some spots while ascending the mountain, lest they catch an edge and get flipped out of the chair. At the top of the mountain was a run people called the “cornice.” Wind blowing against the face carved the snow into a slight concave bowl. Someone carved a chute through the upper edge, and skiiers would stand at the edge trying to decide whether to step off. Those who did plummeted, weightless, down the mountain before biting into its steep, trecherous surface. A fall often launched the skiier into a bottomless slide. Occasional avalanches added to the danger. I was a novice skier, so I never pushed my luck. I only watched from below.

Now, I stand now at the cornice of my 39-year career in newspapers. I have just one more week in the editor’s chair before hanging it up. As I look over the edge I am both frightened and excited. I worry about leaving behind the comfort of a paycheck, about leaving creative, brave colleagues who are trying to document our world so that we can all make it a better place. Yet I am excited to make my time my own. I am eager to work more on my photography business. It’s a craft I have worked on for many years. I have prepared myself for the risks. Even so, I understand there are no guarantees. I have launched a new career during a pandemic.

You might be feeling the same way, whether by choice or circumstance. One thing the coronavirus has given us is perspective. We are all connected, for good or ill. As you retreat into quarantine or limit your activities to minimize risk, try not to forget that. Equally important, try not to let your loved ones forget. Consider making a portrait with me. Make a statement. You are here, a survivor.

As I waited for my reporters to file their stories last week, I noticed a flurry of activity at my birdfeeder. A record-setting snowfall had just begun. Fortunately, I had filled the feeder and the birds rushed to store up for winter. It reminded me of a zen koan. It goes something like this: A man was chased by a tiger and he fell off a cliff. He stopped his fall by grabbing a branch. He looked up and saw the tiger pacing above him. He saw two mice, one white, one black, circling the limb, gnawing away at it. He looked down and saw another tiger below, licking his chops. The branch was beginning to fail. Just then he noticed a wild strawberry growing out of a crack in the rock an arm’s length away. He plucked the strawberry and slowly bit into it. “How sweet it is!” the man declared.

I hope to see you soon. So do your friends and relatives.