I am hoisted high above the snowy ground moving beneath me: 25 feet aloft in some places; 50 to 75 in others. My ride is quiet and smooth, barely faster than I could walk. White swaths of snowy trails slip away below, edged by evergreens, and nestled among those green stalwarts are the thin twigs of deciduous trees, holding their own despite their bare limbs. The top twigs of these silent guardians point upward, like the fingers on an uplifted palm—open, expectant.

My ride is at the level of these treetops, bird’s eye—if only I had the power to flit and alight as a chickadee might on this winter’s day. When I crane my neck I see those famous “islands in a Bay” that so catapulted a young local poet into her career over 100 years ago.

As I am conveyed summit-ward, a steady stream of empty chairs passes me in the opposite direction, the whole of the chairlift whirring round and round, day after day, hour after hour at my local ski area. This chairlift wasn’t always here—this refurbished one was installed within the last 10 years, part of a massive ski area redevelopment undertaken by my town, the owner of this recreational area, at a time when winter meant predictable cold and snow, or at least we held that delusion.

Within minutes I arrive at the top of a snow-covered offramp. I push myself away from the chair as it turns on its summit flywheel. The full bay and islands stretch away to the east—the only ski area in New England where you can see the ocean.

In one swift motion I glide down the ramp, round a corner, then push off, pouncing at the snow beneath me—eager to gain speed. I am early enough on the slope that the groomer’s corduroy snow tracks are untarnished: my ski edges carve the first arcs on a mutable canvas that by day’s end will resemble smashed potatoes.

Speed, precision; elegant fast turns down a pristine slope. An elixir for me—has been since the young age at which I first strapped on skis, over 60 years ago. I am fortunate: the ski hill is 8 minutes from my house; I have owned my equipment for years; the annual resident’s pass is still affordable.

On my next ride up, with brilliant blue overhead—a blue broken only by jet contrails, human signatures on Earth’s atmosphere—and the snowy trails below, I am again caught in a nether world: suspended above our planet, not yet at the summit, but no longer at the mountain’s base—tethered between on and off ramps.

In those moments, while all is moving forward and I anticipate my speedy run down, I embody the fragility. My moments aloft will be brief; my run down the slope will be even quicker, briefly exhilarating. This day’s perfect run is effervescent—as is the whole enterprise.

There will be a winter that comes, most likely in my lifetime, when the temperature doesn’t drop low enough to sustain the snowmaking that covers these slopes. No snow—artificial or natural.

Will we still call it winter? And what of the other power needed to sustain this operation?

The price of the oil and diesel—that fuels the chairlift and groomers, warms the lodge—will no longer be affordable. We might have known better—the price we pay, on this day as I enjoy my skiing habit, is falsely low, not truly representing the cost. We are slowly learning that maintaining an economic system that fails to calculate the cost to the atmosphere, the oceans, our fellow creatures, imperils our whole.

My winter wonderings are now of the existential sort: how long will downhill skiing be possible on the coast of Maine in this town-owned recreation area? How many years will it take for us to shutter the place, transform it from a fossil-fuel driven sport to another kind of winter fun? Will we have the gumption in the next few critical years to shift out of burning things for power? Will it even matter or has Mother Nature already taken back the reins?

Molly Mulher lives in Camden