The Sweet Spot: Brawny Men At Easter

STORYTELLING | by SHERRY STRIPLING

EVERY EASTER I REMEMBER A LESSON I learned when skiing in the Canadian Rockies with a group of burly backwoods men.

I wasn’t too worried about the Telemark skiing or the helicopter lift into the mountains. But I had my concerns about spending a week in a tiny canvas yurt with all of these great big men. And that was before I realized that we would be able to hear but not see each other as our wet, rank long underwear draped like seaweed from pillar and post.

Those fears came to a head the very first night. Lying wide awake long after the snorers were asleep, I heard one of the men crawling across the floor. He’d rustle in someone’s private gear, and then continue his crawl to the next bag.

“Oh, brother,” I thought. “This is going to be a long week.”

The next morning I waited for the men to discover what might be missing from their things. Nothing was gone, but something was gained: Easter eggs, chocolate, delicious and plentiful. We spent the next 20 minutes searching through kettles and socks for more, as Gus, the biggest and burliest of them all, sat and watched, delighted by his 2 a.m. stealth.

These men were former school mates. In between yearly reunions like this, they were scattered all over the frozen north. Lying in my bunk, cloaked by dangling long-johns, I listened all week as they supported each other’s trials of the previous year, showing especial tenderness to the most vulnerable in their group, a guy who had struggled with alcohol.

And once again, I learned: You can’t judge a man by his John Wayne walk.