Joe lived in the
mountains. He thought they were the
most beautiful mountains in the world.
Every evening when he watched the sky turn orange behind them, he felt
like the luckiest person alive.
In the morning Joe
would wake up happy, because he loved his job.
He worked at the bottom of tallest mountain, where he operated the ski
lift. As a child he used to watch the ski
left ascending into the sky and the people disappear into the clouds like
angels. Nothing made him happier now
than to be the one who helped the skiers fly up into the heavens.
And there were
many, many skiers. In Joe’s village
everyone loved to ski—everyone, that is, but Joe. He had never liked it. His parents had tried to make him learn, but
gave up in despair when he insisted on going down the bunny hill on his bum, no
matter what they promised him. He didn’t
even care when his older brother Will made fun of him and called him a scaredy
cat. The moment he strapped skis on he
felt cold and miserable. Speed did not
interest him. He was content to
appreciate the mountain from the bottom.
So Joe attached
himself to the people who operated the ski lift and they taught him all about
it. By the time he was done with school
he already had his dream job waiting for him.
Will, who had made the local ski team as an alternate, pretended he
didn’t know who Joe was whenever he was in line for the lift. Joe didn’t mind. He didn’t much care for Will either.
One day Joe
received a call from Jilly, the operator at the top of the ski lift. She loved working at the top of the mountain
as much as Joe loved working at the bottom.
“I don’t feel very well,” she told Joe.
“Do you think you could come up here and take over?”
Reluctantly Joe
agreed. He usually avoided riding the
ski lift at all costs. Jilly needed
help, however, so Joe left his assistant Mark in charge, strapped on his skis,
and felt himself transported up into the mists.
