Aaah. Another weekend, another
story. I close my eyes and switch my mental cd to Moby, song 3. Then I turn my mental HDtv channel to the Mt. Baker station.
Mt. Baker, like a giant piece of divinity caked with powdered sugar sitting under a
blue sky. My fellow riders were skeptical as we drove up the windy mountain road,
following a Lexus that had already been stuck twice but had managed to get unstuck every
time we attempted to pass it. If I did not know any better, I would say that these people
were being paid to keep the masses at bay. It was only a matter of time before we reached
the
turnoff for the Upper Lodge and consequently, the best powder day of our lives.
As a welcoming doorprize we were
awarded the third spot in kings row, spitting distance from the ticket booth and the
number 6 chair lift. The Lexus had made sure we did not get there in time to see a shovel
fly up between the lift's bullwheel and an unsuspecting chair. This caused the chair to
pop off its cable and be thrown violently toward the small crowd that had massed for the
opening. Had this been the first day of the year, I would wager that those people would
have headed straight for the bar. But not today. Not when there was 15 inches of fresh
snow to keep one from dying if your chair unceremoniously dropped. People were taking
chances, and the Lexus held off the rest of us long enough for the brave to get first
tracks. No matter though, we the Butchers were on a mission. With the Lexus now working
for us, we hopped on the old school 2 person chair lift and cruised toward the summit. The
guy I was sharing the chair with had already laid down first tracks, and was only capable
of uttering "The powder man, The powder!"
All was well. A good omen appeared
under Mt. Shuksan in the form of a cobalt blue abyss. The only cloud in the sky hovered
over the glacier for most of the day - casting a deep ocean blue hue onto the snowfields
below it. Our first turns were soon to come. Snow the texture of cornmeal lay in wait
everywhere for us.
As I strapped in I could hear the
mountain utter, "Please come play with me. It was awfully windy last night and I just
need you to comfort me for a few hours." With that we gave all we could.
We carved up the tight steep runs
under the double lifts. We sliced up the secret gladed areas into perfect ribbons that
rewarded your toeside cut with the bliss of dragging your hand in the snow behind you; it
was like surfing a tube that never closed.
We diced the chop long after our
calves gave out. By the end of the day, the snow that lay beautiful and untouched before
now was choppy and pock marked. I admitted my disdain for the amount of people that ended
up at the hill that day to my comrades, but knew that only a select few of us made it past
the Lexus that had eventually stalled in the middle of the road.
It seemed that immediately after
seeing us get by, they decided to give chase to the upper lot but got stuck horizontally
in the deep snow just passed the turn off. I pictured a mass of cars stuck behind the
Lexus, the conversations that must have ensued shortly after the incident, and giggled
boyishly at our fortune. I had one last flat cattle track to navigate down to our car,
which would transport the butchers back to the city.
In a grand gesture of appreciation,
the mountain presented a small expanse of steep untouched powder off to one side of the
flat trail between me and the cars below. As I laid on my back foot and howled with glee,
I hopped the lip and ripped three turns down to our car. With my body exhausted, I fell
flat into the snow and laughed, listening to the faintest of thanks coming from behind me.
Copyright @2000 Billy Cliffe |
