The Ski Journal • Volume 14, Issue 3 • CASCADIAN DRIFT

“A handful of cars beat the 5 a.m. road closure at Alta, UT on this day. Although the road didn’t open to uphill traffic again that day, the Alta Ski Patrol made sure the mountain did. The term ’country club’ gets tossed around a lot in these parts, but I feel like this was the only legitimate country club day I’ve witnessed in my 12 or so years of skiing there.” Photo: Chris Whitaker

My eyes feel like they’re about to pop out of my head. These storm-cycle graveyard shifts are never-ending, but it beats riding a desk. Only six cars in the middle of the lot tonight, not too bad. Hopefully the snowbank around Jeep Island here sends the message—plow guy, coming through.

Oh, and this lady on my tailgate? Maybe that’s who called the office complaining that I was “holding her up.” It was nothing personal, Debbie—my top speed is 35 mph and it was either 25 around those curves or send a frozen wave to snap off mailboxes.

Woah there, man! It’s 2 a.m. What’re you doing wandering around with no headlamp in long johns? Please don’t go underestimating my wing plows’ five feet of reach off the rig. You’re still better off than the tent in the snowbank yesterday. I accidentally gave that guy the big dump he wasn’t looking for. Hopefully folks read the “No Snow Caves in the Parking Lot Snowbank” signs or that could get messy quick.

I should have brought more of that cowboy coffee sludge. Guess I’ll have to run a lap around the plow to stay sharp. I could drive this road with my eyes closed, but the 13-speed transmission, screens, levers and buttons demand a certain level of consciousness.

Is this storm ever going to pass? This is day 15 of 12-hour shifts. I can’t remember what daylight feels like. Forget vitamin D, just keep those eyes peeled and line up the center of the hood down the road like you always do—18 inches from the snow pole, hug those guardrails and don’t go kissing one. Remember the marker is out at mile 46. The last thing I need now is to snap another plow blade. No way I’m bringing my rig back to dispatch held together by chains again. At least I was still rolling.

Damn, right when I thought the radio was finally quiet during a storm—crash at mile 16xq. My money is on a “my Subaru handles anything” stuck in the bank, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was another speed-racer in a BMW. This isn’t Fast & Furious Cascadian Drift, city folk.

Is anyone on shift who owes me a get-out-of-jail-free card? I towed Jake out last month and he still hasn’t returned the favor. I can barely see past my wipers thanks to Old Man Winter’s snow cyclone, but if it hits the main radio line that I’m stuck in a ditch, I’ll never hear the end of it.

Phew—only five miles to dispatch, and then a few hours of Zen. I’ve got a warm bed and a couple of cold beers on the other end. Nothing crazy, though. The weatherman’s calling for more snow tomorrow, and I’ll be back in the driver’s seat again.

I give Dan a wave as he roars by. He’s developed a salty layer of crust in his 35 years of clearing roads. “Back in the good ol’ days when people smiled and waved at plows,” he’ll always start. Soon it’ll be semi-retirement and all the weekday powder runs those legs can handle—don’t you worry, buddy. Just make sure you tuck in behind me, clearing your path to the top of the world.

The Ski Journal - Volume 14, Issue 3

CASCADIAN DRIFT

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