7 – Two of Hud's Best Ski Moments

As mentioned in Chapter 6, I value ski areas that provide a fun day filled with a variety of runs, general enjoyment, and aesthetics.  

Those criteria are pretty typical for other experienced skiers, too; a few years ago, Jimmy D -- he snowboards -- and I spent the week on five of Colorado's smallest ski "resorts."  Ski Cooper is so small that they had sold out of their annual supply of embroidered patches, which I collect, and had no budget to order more for the remaining month of the season.  That's why I have a 10th Mountain Division patch; Ski Cooper sold out of regular patches, but had 10th Mountain patches to celebrate Leadville and Ski Cooper being home to the 10th Mountain Division snow soldiers.

Ski Cooper also provided me with two of my most memorable ski moments.  The area is so small that one of their primary lifts is actually a "slingshot" platter lift.  Instead of chairs dangling from an overhead cable, a slingshot platter lift has a rope dangling from a spring-loaded reel -- the slingshot.  The rope has a circular disk (the platter) at the bottom, which hangs at shoulder height when the reel has all the rope slack wound up tightly.

There are lots of these lifts around, but most are short.  Ski Cooper's is a full ten-minute ride from base to summit, and the only lift on that side of the mountain.

To ride a platter lift, you pull excess rope out of the reel, slip the platter between your thighs and up to your butt, clamp your thighs together, and sit back on the platter.  You remain standing on your skis, which (with luck) start to slide as the cable, reel, rope, and platter, start pulling you uphill.  Sounds complicated, and it is, the first few times you try it.  But Jimmy D and I are old -- ahem, experienced -- and have ridden these things before, so we weren't worried about it.  Besides, there were very few skiers on that side of the mountain, and riding the slingshot meant we could turn lap after lap after lap almost as if we were alone.

At the bottom, the lift operator was chatty (big points on friendly staff criterion for Ski Cooper) and mentioned something about the "halfway unloading point."  That mention went right by me, as many ski areas have unloading points halfway up, allowing inexperienced skiers the chance to avoid steep slopes farther up the mountainside.

A few minutes went by, and Jim started singing into the emptiness -- which is just fine with me.  It means he's having fun.  He's in front; I'm about thirty feet behind on the next successive platter, and here comes the halfway unloading point.  The snow is piled up about four feet, so that unloaders can release the platter at the top of the snowpile, and have a slight downward incline to ski away from the now-unladen rope/reel/platter.

Jim lets out a "WOOHOO!" as he goes over the snowpile, loud enough to wake up the drowsing lift operator bundled up in his warm hut and bored with the same lack of skier activity on this side of the mountain that attracted us.  

I lean a little forward as I start up the snowpile, digging in the tips of my skis for better steering control, and, unfortunately, the reel/rope went slack for a half-second.  The next half-second, it snapped up taut, pulled me sideways, and toppled me hard onto the snow.

My thighs clamped down tight on the platter to avoid being left behind.  I realized I was now being dragged uphill, pelvis first, at a brisk walking speed, by a relentlessly moving slingshot platter lift.  This absurdly ridiculous situation brought on an episode of uncontrollable laughter.  Time slowed down as these thoughts went through my brain:

"You're a moron."

The dragging continues.

"OK, it's not so bad.  Let's just get dragged to the top; can't be too much farther."

The dragging continues.

"OK, maybe it will be a LOT farther.  Let's try to stand up."

The dragging continues.

"If I flail around, I should be able to get my skis uphill of me, and have this abomination of a lift actually drag me up onto them."

The dragging continues, now with dramatic arm and leg flailing.

"Roll over onto my back, flop the skis up the hill ..."

Skis and poles clack together loudly as the flailing intensifies.

And boom!  Ski edges dig in and Hud the Stud pops up like a Weeble.

I'm still laughing uncontrollably, and realize that Jim's also been shouting and laughing the entire time, while digging frantically for his camera.  Too late for photo evidence, but I was the justifiable butt of his jokes for the rest of the morning.

We ran through Cooper's skiercross track several times and broke for lunch.  As self-proclaimed dirtbag skiers, Jim and I take pride in brown-bagging our lunch.  We scanned for an empty table on the only sundeck (Ski Cooper is small, remember?) and found a big one that was half-occupied by a large family.

"May we join you?" says Jim in his always-louder-than-necessary voice.

"Of course," says the middle-aged woman who was in charge of ... eight kids?  She looked great, hair sparkling in the sun, stylish bugeye sunglasses, tan face, and a wide, friendly smile: she was Ms. Perfect.  I was smitten, Jim knew it before it happened, and maneuvered so I was obligated to sit directly across from her.  (Thanks, Jim; you're a good buddy!)

Over the next 45 seconds, we learned they were an aggregation of three neighborhood family kids skiing today under the jurisdiction of Ms. Perfect, and they learned that we were submarine buddies on our annual age-denial trip.

As I slung my backpack onto the table to dig out my sandwich, tangerine, and string cheese, one of the kids says, "Hey!  You're the guy that got dragged up the hill!"

Bedlam: Jim and four of the kids begin shrieking with laughter, all trying to tell the story simultaneously by shouting louder than the others.  After the initial glee dissipated, I attempted to regain some macho (Ms. Perfect is sitting right there, for heaven's sake!) by claiming that my superb skiing skills were evidenced by my self-righting.

They weren't buying it.  

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Ski Cooper is the home of my Best Ski Run Ever.  After becoming a notorious legend for getting dragged up the Buckeye Platter Lift, Jim and I assumed the personas of Big Bad Boys Who Pwn This Mountain. [Ed: Not a typo.  Google it.]  We burned up tens of thousands of calories blasting through trees and speeding like twin comets down runs devoid of all humanity except us -- but shared with snowshoe hares, marmot-looking somethings, and deer tracks.  (Ski Cooper gets BIG points for wildlife activity.)

Late that afternoon, after huffing, puffing, and laughing all over the mountain, we decided to chill out a bit and go down the run directly under the chair.  It's designated as a double-black, but we'd surveyed it during several lift rides, we also know those black diamond ratings are relative, and right now, we fear nothing.

Standing at the top of the run, looking at the far horizon through thin, grey clouds over snow-covered evergreens, I noticed time slow down.  It had been a great day, full of laughter, thrills, old (and new) friends, red-line speed, some surprisingly tough terrain, and the silence that can only be not-heard in deep winter woodlands.  Jim was equally still.  The low rumbling of the empty chairlift reminded us of our purpose, and I said quietly, to no one, really, "Style points this run."

Jim said, "Cool," and started his flop/skip/hop dance to get his board moving.  As is our habit, I followed close behind.

There was a thin film of fresh snow, perhaps a quarter-inch, over hardpack snow that could have been there for eons.  That's an almost perfect surface for my style of swoosh-swoosh skiing, providing a dusting of snowflakes to be flung by my skis as they find firm footing underneath, providing secure grip for the ski's steel edge and sending me through the turn like I'm attached to a centrifuge.

Pando -- the double-black we had chosen -- was narrow for a Rocky Mountain ski run, twenty feet at most, cut through the forest specifically to place and maintain the chairlift pylons.  It's far too narrow for snowcat groomers, especially with the large pylons in the center every hundred feet or so.  But that's what makes chairlift runs so attractive to skiers: the snow and the terrain are pure and natural.  In the old days, ski areas discouraged skiing under the lifts, but lift line ski runs are as irresistible as Ms. Perfect at lunch,.

I focused intensely; skiing mandates that always, but this run was going to get my best effort.

Let's go.  Feel the g-forces.  Shift your weight and roll your boots.  Breathe.  Sight the next turn.  Lift your hand, plant your pole.  Feel the g-forces.  Shift your weight and roll your boots.  Breathe.  Sight the next turn.  Pole; G-forces; Shift; Roll; Breathe; Sight; Pole; G-forces; ...

A dance with the mountain, in unison with gravity, with an instinctive grasp of the physics involving friction, sharp steel, frozen snow, and the beautifully simple leverage of muscle, tendon, and bone.  It's all a sublimely personal symphony of so many variables synchronized to deliver an indescribable ecstasy ... until "breathe" turns to "pant" and then to "gasp."

I pause about a third of the way down.  No falls, no bad moves, no mistakes.  There's a father and son combo on the chair going overhead.  They look, their heads swivel to keep me in sight, but they say nothing.

Let's go.  The symphony begins to respond again, playing the familiar refrains as I conduct it: long turn, short turn, slide around this pylon close on my right forearm, slip between that pine sapling and the edge of the woods (my left pole catches the sapling; I feel it scrape along the pole shaft and the tug as it catches for an instant on the basket at the pole tip), and then turn straight downhill for a second to gain speed and raise the stakes a bit.  

I have confidence in my boots and skis, as a surgeon has confidence in her scalpels and clamps.  I have confidence in my 15-year experience, as a teacher has confidence starting his 15th year with the same material.  I have confidence in my ability (not bravado, although that's what will fill this evening, I know) and my physical conditioning.  But most importantly, I have the combination of attitude, mindset, and philosophy to fully enjoy this moment.

"Live in the Now."  This -- right now, on Pando, a double-black run on one of Colorado's smallest ski areas, on a chilly grey afternoon in February -- this is Living in the Now.

The breathe turns to pant turns to gasp again, but I ignore my respiratory system this time until it turns to grunt.

I stop again.  Still no faults.  Skis together so tightly that my boots bump each other.  The pole plants are just flicks against the dusty surface, and rocks and lift pylons are racing gates that I weave into my race against ... nothing.  

Or is it a race against everything?  Aging, life's problems, evil and nastiness in the world, inequality, injustice, loneliness, and all the things I want to forget.  Stopped, I gather myself.  The grunt slowly turns back into breathe, and I realize that for a few moments those things had indeed been completely banished.  My entire world had been the rhythmic repeat of turns.

Let's go.  Jim is at the bottom, about a football field away.  I know he's watching, and, as is our habit,  I know he'll provide an honest, though polite critique.

Turn follows turn follows turn, with a spectacular hockey stop, sliding sideways and spraying my good friend with snow up to his waist.

"Wow," he says reverently, ignoring the snow that's slithering down his pants.  "Was that a great run or what?"

"Best run ever," I respond.

Ironically, that's also a habit we repeat several times each ski day.  This time, though, both of us stand exquisitely still and quiet, looking at the mountain, each other, and back to the mountain.

"Best run ever," I repeat.  "Let's go."

Jim erupts in his boisterous laugh, turns and does his familiar flop/skip/hop, and begins sliding toward the bottom of the lift.

There's time for at least one more run before they kick us out of here.