On The Trail of the Perfect Turn Vol. 2
In that moment between deep slumber and awakening, I suddenly found myself. As my thoughts began to sharpen, I was aware of a heavy, yet soft weight on my left arm. Carefully, I pulled my arm out from under her, our skin sticking together slightly from sleeping under heavy covers. Without looking at the clock, I knew the time. No matter how I had spent the previous night, I always woke at the same time - ten minutes before the alarm sounded, ten minutes before six.
I stumbled out of the apartment and into the hallway, blinded by the stark, yellow light, and made my way down four flights of stairs. At the bottom, the door swung open and the cook almost hit me in the dark. After exchanging apologies, I made my way to the coffee machine. One cup a morning was routine. Looking over at the Ski Patrol weather information board I decided on two.
According to the board, nearly thirty-six inches of snow had fallen that night. With strong winds blowing in from the west, the areas around and below MountBaldy were sure to be deep in snow. After rinsing my cup, I walked back upstairs to my apartment. A few minutes in the bathroom, a few more dressing in the dark, and I was ready to meet the day. Before I left each morning, I liked to stand in the dark and look out my window at MountSuperior. Some mornings, the moon hangs brilliantly above the saddle, shining down the slopes of the mountain until it is lost into the depths of Little Cottonwood Canyon. That morning, there was no moon, only the dark silhouette of the mountain.
Normally, after a few minutes of silent meditation, I checked my gear once more and headed out to the Wildcat chairlift. That morning though, the gear check came with a bonus at the end. Through my coat and many layers, I felt the pressure of her leaning into me from behind. Reaching back I felt that she was still nude, shivering slightly after leaving our warm bed. Turning around, I whispered some quiet words, kissed her in the dark and grabbed my pack and left.
Outside, the snow fell heavily, the chairs rounding the bull wheel and lifting slowly up into the darkness to complete another revolution. The light from the lift shack reached desperately into the blackness. At the outside control station, Wayne-O stood bundled up against the stiff wind. While I waited for my partner, Wayne and I talked the usual talk. What areas might open that day, how it seemed like a lot more snow then thirty-six inches. I laughed into my collar when he asked if I was more than a little worn out lately. It was our fifth early morning in a row, so I said that that could be expected. Wayne laughed, and I laughed since we both knew that was not what he meant. Behind me, I heard, “Hey hoser.” Turning around, I looked at Jay Healey. “Hey hoser yourself”, I replied. A little impatient I asked him if he was ready yet. Healey knelt down to strap into his skis, coughing a little. “You should have stayed longer last night,” he said. “Matt and Lauren and I tried to kill all of the vino.” “I know,” I replied, “but I had something to take care of.” Healy just looked at me, giving me his trademark, “Yeah.”
Moving over to the “wait here board,” we waited while Wayne swept off the incoming chair. Throwing a thanks his way we lifted off into the darkness. The first chairlift ride with the Montanan was always my favorite. He was on my first chair of my first working day in Alta. We also often rode last chair on Sugarloaf to ski down at the end of the day. As we moved up the line, we could feel the chair begin to speed up after its initial warm up. Moving up over the steep, quick incline that is Waterfall, the snow abated for a moment, giving our lighter a chance to work. Nearing the top of the chair we got ready to depart. Since we were the first ones to the top, the ramp was still covered in several feet of snow. The idea was to make sure no straps or clothing were caught in the metal frame, and to fling yourself off the chair, hoping not to be dragged back out into the night, dangling from a nylon strap forty feet above a slope covered in suffocating snow. As we picked ourselves up out of the snow and brushed off, we each stole glances up at Baldy. Although the mountain was not visible through the snow and night, we could feel it’s presence above us. The cat track that we stood on was only a small scar across the shoulder of Baldy; the feeling of safety it gained us was insignificant to the realization that we stood in the path of potential avalanches.
Jay leaned in the direction of Simulation and swung his pole downward sharply. When we heard the slight wisping sound of aluminum slicing through light snow, we felt a little better. I was never sure where that feeling came from, but now I think it was derived from the concept of knowledge is power. The power to prevent your own, or worse, someone else’s untimely departure from these mountains we call home. When I first came to Alta, people took the time to educate me on skiing in the WasatchMountains. The idea was that the more you knew, the better your chances of survival.
In any event, it was irrelevant to us at that moment. Early mornings for the Lift Company were a calculated risk. The fact that the snow held on Stimulation would have to be enough for us. Looking for the light outside of the old Watson’s Shelter to guide us, we tapped poles before Jay dropped in. In an instant, he was swallowed up, and I was left alone again. Giving Jay a chance to get clear of the slope, I said a silent thank you to God. At that time, I did not know where I stood spiritually, but in the pre dawn hours of the Wasatch, I felt compelled to show appreciation for my life as it was.
After a minute or so, I turned my skis slightly and fell quickly off the cat track. It takes a turn or two to gain your bearings in deep, silent dark snow. Once I found my rhythm, the turns came more easily. At the tenth turn, I deliberately pushed up out of the snow to find Watson’s light. Assured that I was headed in the right direction, I dug deep on the next turn, immersing myself into Alta lore and history. Before my knees came up sharply, signifying the flats leading to Germania, I skied every turn ever skied in Alta. Although many remarkable and unique people had come to Alta, some staying for a lifetime, it is really the mountain that leaves the everlasting impression on people, not the other way around.
At Germania, our working day began. Just as I entered the motor room, our fellow Foreman/Altaholic, Cathy skied up below. I realized that my strong sense of isolation had been unwarranted, as she had been maybe just a dozen chairs behind us. Cathy and her partner began to help Jay clear the ramp while I gently nudged the sleeping behemoth that is Germania into action. Once the chair began to move slowly, I slid down the ladder and grabbed a super scoop. Working silently, we each moved snow from the ramp as quickly as possible. Ski Patrol would not be far behind, and the locals, lodge employees, and guests depended on all of us to get them to the deep stuff as soon as possible. Once the bulk of the snow was removed, and a few more lifties had arrived, Jay and I boarded Germ for the last, and most dangerous, leg of our journey.
For the second time that morning, we moved quickly out of the way of the chair, this time not falling since Germania’s top ramp was steeper and longer than Wildcats. At GermPass, we could see the DevilsCastle straight ahead through an emerging dawn. To our right was the compact, dark valley underneath MountBaldy that we had just left. Jay started traversing straight, his tall Montanan frame blending in with the dark face of the Castle. High above the Albion Basin that we were about to ski into loomed the sheer rock face of the Devils Castle, 11,000 feet high at the summit and more than half a mile from end to end, the Castle wore it’s title well, seemingly guarding the deep valleys separating us from the Timpenogas Mountains. For a long time I wondered what lay behind this natural fortress. If I were to climb to the top, would I be able to spy down on demons and devils dancing on the valley floor below? A midsummer’s hike my first summer dispelled that notion. In the place of dancing imps was a beautiful alpine lake, encircled by tall pines. At the waters edge, you could camp, a small fire and brilliantly lit Milky Way your only companions inside of the Castle.
With little time to waste, we started down the groomer, which, although it had already been pressed that night was more than a foot deep in snow. At Keyhole, we were met by slide debris piled about four feet high and lying across the twenty foot wide cat track. Although it does not have far to travel, a small slide in Keyhole could push you down into the gully below, trapping you well below the slope. Traversing over the debris field and onto the elbow, we could see the Sugarloaf lift running silently above us. The early morning guys on Sugarloaf and Sunnyside had the thankless job of riding snowmobiles across the base to get their lifts running. There were no deep, dark turns awaiting those hearty souls, just a fast, cold ride and a temperamental chairlift.
At the Supreme Access, we veered right hoping we hit the right track. On a good morning, you could lean back on the tails of your skis to meet the wall of snow separating groomed and un-groomed. On a bad morning, your tips sank in quickly, yard sailing you into the deep snow at full speed, losing any hopes of a quick traverse across the access. Following the sound of Jay’s skis and the spray from his tails, I sat back and braced for impact. That morning the Cat Drivers were good to us, and we easily started a track under the Devil’s Castle. It towered directly above us to the right, straining our necks as we looked up in the muted dawn light. After about two minutes of traversing, we saw a brilliant flash to our left above the Backside, followed by a loud boom. Ski Patrol had moved to the one Hundred and Five-Millimeter Howitzer, firing shells larger than my forearm across the canyon. Our anticipation rose, and we picked up the pace, pushing our boots and skis forward through the deep snow. We took turns making the traverse, hurrying towards the dark center of the large mass of pine trees that comprised the AlbionBasin. The sooner we had our chairlifts dug out, the sooner we could ski.
As we traversed under my chairlift towards Supreme, I looked down the canyon and saw the beginning of Alpen Glow. The blue and black sky above was being washed from below with a dark pink, the color slowly reaching upward. Stars that had been brilliantly white during breaks in the storm were fading against the illumination from the east. At Supreme, Jay and I moved quickly to get the ramp clear of snow so that Patrol could ride to the top. After a while, we went into the lift shack to enjoy a cup of coffee from his thermos. As we warmed up in the dark, we each took guesses as to what would be the best skiing and when. Right away we decided on the steep medium length slope of challenger leading to Rope line. After a minute or so of traversing the orange and black braided rope, we would make a right turn through the trees into White Squaw. From there, it was twelve steep turns through the trees to our friend’s cabin, where coffee was sure to be brewing, probably with a little Stan Getz still playing from the night before.
On a morning like that one, there really are no losers. Every run is epic; every turn further ensnares you into the mesmerizing grip of liftie skiing. Life is to short to compare who gets the best skiing, but someone’s got to, right? After agreeing to meet up in a few hours, I left Jay and took the gentle, somewhat flat trail down to my chairlift. It was the smallest chair in the mountain, accessing the weakest terrain. I never saw any rock stars ride, nor did any of the local rippers know my name. They did everything that they could to avoid my chairlift. I would not have it any other way. With the backcountry access of Supreme only six minutes above, and the new high speed Sugarloaf two hundred feet below me, I was alone in my own little wonderland of steep and deep. I was content loading kids and their parents at my chair because they were friendly.
Most mornings I would watch Patrol bomb the Backside as I shoveled snow from my ramp. Looking up to the massive ridge that separated the Albion and PeruvianBasins, I could see the tiny black dots as they made their way across the far ridge. When they stopped, I stopped also. A few minutes later, I saw the sudden white flash of an avalanche bomb taped to a length of bamboo, followed by the loud, distant report. The snow below the small figures began to slide down the Backside, reaching terminal velocity after a few hundred feet. If there were a cliff band underneath the patrollers, the manmade avalanche would cascade over it for several seconds, reminding me of pictures of an old friend’s trips to the hidden waterfalls of the Pacific Northwest.
When my lifties showed up at eight-thirty, I had to decide between a fresh backside or a fresh Supreme Bowl. Some days I got both, and more than once each. Once I knew that a liftie was reliable, I could extend my ski time, and in turn, theirs. No one from the front office hounded me; no pro bro’s harassed me for favors. I was able to just ski. Skiing was why I was there. Skiing has been the root of all the great things in my life.
From discovering the Wasatch, to falling in love with a beautiful woman, skiing was the reason. If everyone has a purpose, then I know mine, much like you may know yours. Once a man knows that, everything else that he seeks will be found within that purpose. Throughout my search for the perfect turn I have loved and lost, I have forged friendships that will endure for eternity but, most importantly, I have realized the compassion and kindness of uncommon people sharing a common desire.
