(This story is a bit longer than previous posts -- you can download a PDF here, if you prefer.)
Ben watched the white maelstrom envelop the group kneeling in a protective circle. Seconds earlier they had clambered from a helicopter, clumsy in their ski boots, lurching and stumbling in the deep powder. Now the rotor’s gusts left them snow-blasted and clinging to each other near the mountain’s edge. A loose mitten blew free and skittered away; a frustrated curse followed it. The rotor speed increased and Ben raised his head to watch the runners of the Bell 212 slowly ascend. Chunks of compressed snow vibrated loose from the rails, disintegrating into the wind. The chopper rose majestically, like a prehistoric dragonfly that had just deposited a colorful cluster of eggs on one side and curious metal sticks on the other. It veered into the wind off the ridge, then rocketed down valley with its red strobe shrinking in the distance. Ben stood and shook the snow off his goggles. The heli-skiers had arrived.
There were shouts and whoops from the group around him in anticipation of the rush of skiing deep powder. They were an elite group of skiers, paying big bucks to have a jet helicopter drop them off on a remote mountaintop to ski. He reveled in the arrogance, sort of defying nature and laughing in the face of God to ski powder in the wilderness. Hadn’t the Donner Party died in snow-swept mountains?
Ben looked around, then remembered he was alone. Julie had left him at the lunch break to join a group of Europeans and seek “her own space” with expert skiers.
“It’s just for a half day,” she reassured. “We’ve been together all week.”
“You make it sound like it’s been a sentence.”
“Honestly. While you were getting drunk last night in that stupid drinking game, Dieter said some simple pointers would make me float like a princess.” She looked indifferently into the distance.
“You did your own share of drinking.”
“At least I didn’t throw up during the night.”
Ben bent and gave a hand up to one of the skiers who’d been blown backwards by the chopper’s windblast. He trudged over to Klaus their guide, who had emptied the chopper basket and arranged the bundled skis and poles in a semi-circle. He took to the task of pitching to group members their skis. Time was precious. In a matter of minutes the chopper would be back, carrying another group of skiers. He’d seen their group’s weaker skiers flounder, so to keep pace the stronger had to help. Julie was in the group ahead.
He picked up his own skis and unstrapped the poles. Stabbed the tail of each ski backwards into the deep snow. Kicked the packed snow off his boot bottom, and clicked his ski boot into the exposed binding. Clicked in the second one and ski-skated free. Ready.
Klaus tapped Ben’s leg with his own ski pole. He pulled his pipe from his mouth and spit a fleck of tobacco. “You are ready? Yes?”
“Johnny on the spot, Klaus. If you want, I’ll tail gun since my partner’s in the other group. I’ve got the radio and I’ll carry the avalanche pack.”
The wind blew the tassel on Klaus’ red knit ski cap. He was a stocky Swiss guide with a weathered face. His expression was unreadable behind goggles, but his mouth formed a smile like a pink worm twisting in a bearded nest. “Yah. Is good. I like Mr. Gorilla-Turn, a strong skier to bring up the rear. Be like Sheppard dog to keep these flatlanders together. I don’t like getting lapped by another group, because someone clumsy falls and we have to wait while they dig their skis out. You will bring up the rear. Yes?
“Okay, my little chickadees,” he shouted at the group. He clicked his poles together to get their attention. The chatter ceased, leaving only wind moaning through the trees. “See these ski tracks to the right?” Klaus’s ski pole swung around, pointing downhill. “We will follow the last group’s trail over that ridge for perhaps 300 meters. It is a little wind-blown so watch for the Whoop-de-do’s in the flat light. We go, yes?” He held up a cautionary finger. “And remember, always stop above me.”
“Yippee kie yay, Klaus!” An exuberant Texan in a purple Bogner ski suit with designer cowboy hat gave a fist pump.
Klaus threw on his 60-pound guide pack, dug in his poles for a push and floated down the trail. Like ducklings following mama the group strung out behind him. The Texan hung back, stopped, and then held up a hand. “Hold on a sec, bub.” He bent over and puked. The wind was against them, so the sound of his vomiting didn’t carry to the group ahead. After he finished, he wiped his mouth and face with a glove full of snow. Grinned, “Hair of the dog, last night. Thanks for the wait, tail gunner.”
The Texan skied off, while Ben hung back. The low clouds made for flat light, and with the blowing snow visibility was even worse. He stayed clear of a cloud of trailing powder kicked up by the Texan’s stupid Stem Christie turns, until the idiot hit a ridge of breakable crust and did a face-plant in an explosion of snow. As God wills it, he thought dryly. He skied up and did a hockey stop, avoiding the temptation to shower him with a blast of snow. He bent over, hooked his arm and pulled him back onto his feet. Fortunately the ski bindings hadn’t released. “Thanks partner.”
Ben continued to cruise behind, floating on his edges, staying clear of the rutted ski tracks from the group. The terrain was easy and he wiggled his hips, bounced off his toes, and did some quick-cutting little “S’s” like a hot-dog skier in the untracked snow. There was no one to see him show off. The pitch steepened, and he couldn’t help crouching a little further, muscling into the turns in what Klaus called his Gorilla-turns. He hated this derisive description, which mocked his power as he muscled through the snow. Sure, he wasn’t a suave, graceful European skier. So what! He inadvertently looked behind, as he had all week to see if Julie was there, to make sure she was safe, okay. The emptiness stung.
How could he protect what was no longer there? In five days of skiing they’d exceeded the hundred thousand, guaranteed vertical feet of powder. For each additional thousand feet, there was an extra hundred-dollar charge - for both of them. He’d staked everything on this trip and was deep in debt, hoping to dazzle her. He wanted her to see him as a reckless stud, a heli-skier, a master of class and adventure. Would she consider the next step, commitment? But the cash register kept ringing and his bank account kept bleeding. Yesterday he’d watched her eyes following another skier named Dieter. The German group behind them had raced in front, lapping them. Sinuous, gliding, and athletic, Dieter floated heedlessly between the trees, effortlessly doing a helicopter spin off a stump and sticking the landing in an cloud of snow, then laughed and yodeled with his group down the slope. Although they caught the Germans at the bottom waiting for the chopper, their group had been officially lapped. Ben had been stuck at the back with Klaus, helping a fallen skier dig out their ski. When he made it to the bottom he was dismayed to see she’d left their group, and was laughing and mingling with the other group, trying rudimentary German.
Dieter was cool. Dieter was magnetic. His handsome face was flushed with the adrenalin of mastering danger, of heedlessly skiing in deep powder. He rattled off something in French to one of his friends. They laughed. Then spoke German to another, something about the World Cup. He spoke to her in English, “You speak such good German, fraulein. We must have a drink together tonight.” The ski goggles couldn’t hide his staring at her breasts and waist.
Ben skied down to their group, stopped, and put his arm around Julie. “Hey, I missed you in the trees.” He was going to say something to Dieter, but the German just skied off to the chopper.
Ben dug his skis to a halt. In his funk he’d forgotten to never ski below the guide.
“Owe the group a beer, Gorilla-man.” The Texan guffawed.
Klaus skied just below him and stopped. “Group to me,” he scolded. “No one goes lower than me.” They side slipped on their skis to Klaus who had stopped at the edge of a ridge.
“Gorilla man almost bought the farm.” Klaus pointed down slope with his pole. A vast expanse of unspoiled powder spread below them. The Texan looked at the powder field, and pretended to pant like a dog and whine in anticipation. “We must go to the left along this ridge.” He pointed to Ben, “If you continued to ski past me into this valley, you would ski to your death.” He held up a cautionary finger, “No one moves while I cut this slope along the edge.”
Klaus skied over the lip, and then cut sharply to the left. Before he had gone twenty feet a crack formed at the edge of his tracks, rapidly running a hundred meters further in front and splitting away from the rim. Like a white velvet blanket, a two-foot depth of the entire valley floor seemed to sigh, then silently slide away. It picked up speed. There was a hissing, which expanded into a rumble. Down valley the avalanche turned into an explosion of power as the shear transformed into speeding violence. Ben could feel the deep vibration all the way through his boots. Out of the cloud of roaring powder a fir tree snapped off, shot up, and cart wheeled into the sky.
“Klaus to base. I just set off a Class Three on upper Blue Max. Southeast exposure. Everyone stay to the left.”
“Copy that, Klaus,” radioed Ingrid from Group Two below them, Julie’s group. “The Germans almost skied away from me to take it.”
The radio strapped on Ben’s chest was on the same frequency. It hissed and crackled. He wanted to key it, to cry out, “For Christ’s sake, Julie, please be careful!”
“We go to the left, little chickadees. Gorilla boy will tail gun as we go into the trees. It’s safe there. The trees hold the snow. I want lots of yelling. I want everyone to know where everyone is. No one skis into a tree well to suffocate. Gorilla boy will bring up the rear and check with me on the radio every two hundred meters.” Klaus skied off, vanishing in a swirl of powder.
They strung out in pairs, whooping and hollering, sliding into the old-growth forest as the deep powder flew up under their skis. The terrain steepened. Now in the soft float it would shoot into their faces. Face-shots. It became effortless. More hollering and joyful glee. Ben brought up the rear; making “whoops” himself to tell them where he was and that he was following.
Klaus had told him yesterday to try to complete each turn. In finishing the turn it would provide him with just enough braking control so that he could initiate the next without the dip, driving with the knees to brake, his so-called Gorilla turns. “Hey! Ski like you screw, not how you shit! Stand up and finish the turn.” He was strong and fearless and he could force himself through anything. In the back of their group he concentrated on his posture in the float. At least there was no one to see him make a mistake. For a few turns he caught the sensation, standing more upright and feeling effortless control. Then there was a subtle shift in terrain. He felt a disconnect between balance and momentum, and pitched downhill over his skis, burying his head in the snow.
Disoriented, he floundered helplessly with his hat off, goggles filled with snow, and arms flopping down the slope. For an instant, he felt like he was being smothered. So he tucked and did a barrel roll to bring his skis over his head. Now they were below him. He reached behind and found his hat. Then beat out the snow, shook off his goggles and stood. The radio crackled.
“Mr. Gorilla. You are where? Yes?”
Ben keyed the mic. “Uh, right here, Klaus. Just following the tracks. I’ll catch you in a second.” He sucked in a deep breath, and shook off the draining weakness from the struggle in the snow. With jelly legs and fear the Gorilla turns came back. He rounded a corner below some trees and caught up to the group.
“And, that is ten.” Klaus’ pink lips smiled. “Our group is all here. Amazing. No one to lap us. And, good news, chickadees, someone in Group Four lost their ski up on the ridge. At least if we all stay together, we will arrive at the take-out on time and not get lapped.
Klaus’ goggles were pushed up so they could see his stern expression. “You will listen. My tracks ahead will be the boundary of skiing. No one goes to the left outside my tracks. There is a cliff and you will get big air before you die. I want all tracks following on the right. If you are not sure, then just find some tracks and stay to the right. We are in agreement. Yes?” He waved the little tassel at them on the top of his head, pulled his goggles down and skied off.
As the skiers drifted away Ben thought about the previous night, watching Julie dressing in their room. It was a memory he replayed over and over, watching her, so unaware of her body and oblivious of its effect on him. He remembered the tight columns of her back muscles, running his hands down them to the taper of her waist, then flaring out around the delicious curves. His hands were sweaty. She pulled away and carelessly threw on a peasant blouse with flowers in the front, braless. His breath caught, and he immediately felt jealous. Everyone would see her. How could they miss the bounce? “Isn’t that blouse a little too small?”
“It is too small. I’m late.”
He flushed. Eyes widened.
Her eyes flashed, furious. “We’re late for dinner.” She splashed a drop of perfume across her décolletage. He saw accenting eye shadow and a touch of color in her cheeks. Where was the familiar, fresh-scrubbed beauty? She brushed past, a teasing finger lingering for an instant on his lower belly, then marched down the hall.
When he caught up she was already seated at the Germans’ table. Dinners in the ski lodge were always a little awkward. Each table had space for twelve, but there were eleven in each chopper group. So there was always one extra spot. He sat at the next table and watched her take a second glass of Riesling. What was she thinking? Her laughter was too gay, and there was too much lingering eye contact with Dieter. Champagne arrived. Dieter was getting a Million-Foot suit. Money seemed to mean nothing to him. Glasses of bubbly held high, bottoms up, then a refill. The guides brought out the prestigious suit, and Dieter stood to toast them. Then the table toasted him, followed by a raucous chant, “Take it off and put it on! Take it off and put it on.” The challenge: show your shit. Strip and put on the million-foot suit. Strut your stuff. Ben saw Julie’s eyes glitter, eager. Dieter stripped, revealing sinewy rippling muscles, a narrow waist and compact butt. He was unashamed, his blue eyes bright, shaved head held high, sliding into the suit. He left it unzipped in front, his masculinity aggressively defying the room.
Later there was a drinking contest. They’d been doing B-52 shooters. Although Dieter looked drunk, caginess glinted in his eyes. To stay near Julie, Ben was drawn into the game. Skis were brought up from the hut. Dieter had created a Schnapps/Brandy concoction, and lined up full shot glasses on the bar. A select few had been laced with a liberal amount of Tabasco and pepper. Each ski was turned upside down on the bar, and tilted towards a drinker. There was a groove running down the bottom of the ski, and the drinker had to catch the double shot poured down the groove. Five bucks got you in the contest. Whoever choked lost their money.
Julie went first. Opened wide, sucked it down, and flicked her tongue out, “Sehr gut!”
Two more went, then Ben. He pointed to a glass, and Dieter pivoted to pick it, blocking the view with his body. Ben saw the sleight of hand as Dieter poured the tainted double-shot down the runner. Eyes locked. Hot, burning fire down his throat. He fought it down, eyes watering, and stared defiantly back. “Sehr gut!” They played the game again.
Ben staggered away from the game with a pocket full of money. Blurred people surrounded him who appeared to be moving, spinning. He realized they were dancing. Polkas and German waltzes played. Ben reached for Julie, but she was swept out of his arms by Dieter, “Bitte, Herr Gorilla.” Gracefully, they floated around the room, his hand cupping her waist, later sliding over her buttocks, pulling her closer. She closed her eyes, rocked her head back and flowed with the waltz.
Ben awoke, confused and sick in their room. Julie’s side of the bed was empty. The lights were still on. He had his clothes on. He staggered into the bathroom where he vomited. He was washing his face when she came in. Her hair was tussled and her lips puffy. She peed, fell into bed, and muttered, “If you say one word right now, I’ll just leave.” He turned out the lights and lay awake the rest of the night.
Ben poled to get started and catch up with the group. In the deep trees, skiing powder was exhilarating. He could float, shifting his skis from one edge to the other, cutting little “S’s” from glade to glade, whooping to let the others know he was behind them. To his delight, he mastered it. As he turned toward the right, he twisted his upper body to the left. It was like winding a spring. The skis wanted to go where the body pointed. Each time he turned the skis one way; he turned his upper body to the other. It created a tension that cut the turn while it set up the next one. The Gorilla turns were gone. He laughed and cried out loud, “Fuck you, Dieter.”
There was no one to see it, no one who cared. He was tail-gunning some dumbass drunken Texans who didn’t give a shit, let alone even understand what he’d learned. Julie had slipped away, gone forever. He felt for the little square box in his ski pants pocket. All week he’d been waiting for the right moment. Now that moment would never come. His eyes teared. How does this end, he wondered? She gets drunk and screws some guy the night she tells him she’s late. Desolation swept over him. How does this end?
Ski tracks drifted to the right. There was a really good stretch of powder to the left. He swooped through some turns, amazed at the effortless new freedom. He picked up some speed. The hell with it, I’m finally really good. He peeled off some wide G-S turns, swiveled and bent into a racing crouch. He threw his hat off to feel the wind in his hair. Then ditched a glove and reached into his pocket with a bare hand and fished out the box. He threw it into the air.
The edge was coming up, fast. He leaned forward even more to take it full speed. With a laugh at the last moment, he remembered Klaus telling him that whenever he went over a jump, he needed to keep his hands over his ski tips. Otherwise the natural tendency was to sit back, and as you rocked back in thin air, your body collapsed and your arms started to windmill. “Landing is not so good, Gorilla man.” Good old Klaus. He’d show him some good form at the end.
He rocketed off the cliff, a stream of powder trailing behind, hands forward, skis tucked under, holding the perfect position through the air. His eyes were blurred, filled with tears. He thought he passed a tree, and then heard a shout below to the right. Was it the Texan? The impact crushed the air from him. He hit hard in an explosion of powder. He remembered, just before he passed out, light, dark, light, dark as he tumbled in the snow. Then dark.
Someone was slapping his face. He opened his eyes, which were filled with snow. Amazingly, his own hand came up and wiped them free. He could see! He felt with his mind along the length of his body: back, hips, legs, feet. He lifted one and then the other. The slapping started again. He saw Klaus above him. Now the slapping was in earnest. “You stupid sonofabitch! What do you think you’re doing?”
The Texan leaned down, and stuck a bottle in his face. “Hair of the dog, man. I ain’t ever seen nothin’ like that. Never. Take a drink.”
The Texan’s wife slid down, carrying skis. Another skier handed him his poles and bent over patting him on the back. “Man, you take the cake. They might throw you out of here for that stunt, but the air you caught was worth it. I’m going to tell my grandchildren about you.”
A fourth skier had her camera out, shooting a panorama of the cliff, then swinging down the field until she stopped at his supine body. “Wow! Wave to the camera. No one will believe this.”
Klaus’s radio crackled, but he didn’t answer it. He stood swearing. “God dammit, God dammit, God dammit!”
“Klaus, please respond. Ingrid, calling all guides. I have a Class Two in a gulley three hundred meters before the pick up. I told them to stay out of it but they wouldn’t listen. I have two skiers missing; two that swam out of it, and the rest are with me at the top. We are deploying a grid search now, with Beacons and poles. Please come and support. Over.”
Klaus hurtled his stocking cap into the snow. “Fuck! Why do we have this, this disobedience? How can people not listen to directions? Why do I have this stupid job if no one listens?”
He looked down and snarled, “You. Mr. Gorilla man, you will ski on my tracks down with the group. You will take your time and ski safe. I must go to help Group Two.” He grabbed Ben’s collar and shook it, “You will follow my orders. Yes?”
Ben nodded, stood shakily and then kicked back into his bindings. The Texan patted him on the back. “You are one tough dude, hombre. One tough dude.”
They wound their way down the slope. There were some beautiful glades with tempting open powder. He ignored them. He had to get off the mountain. Swivels, S’s, jitterbug turns … who gave a shit? It was over. Get off and go home.
They came upon the gulley. At the bottom the guides had dug out a body. It was like a lifeless Raggedy Ann doll; the head was flopping and twisted the wrong way. Klaus was going to give CPR, but with the broken neck there was no point. Ben could see it was Julie’s ski suit. He skied up and saw the bluish white color. Knew it was finished. He skied further down where the guides were pulling out the second skier. He was alive. Further down he came upon Dieter and the rest of the group. The avalanche had ripped Dieter’s precious little Million Foot suit into shreds. He was acting nonchalant, talking to the remaining group. “Yah, yah. I thought we could outrun it. She was not a good enough skier, though. She did not have the strength to ski out to the right. That’s what you get with these Americans who shouldn’t be here.”
Ben skied past them, and then alone in a daze down to the waiting helicopter in a glade. The pilot called out, “Hey, I heard someone didn’t make it. Any idea?”
He answered, “No, it was someone from Group Two, I didn’t know her all that well.”
