Words: Sakeus Bankson 2018-01-17 18:32:54
It’s 6:30 a.m. There are already six inches on the ground when I pull up to meet the rest of the group, and Revelstoke Mountain Resort, BC—our destination for the next week—is reporting 20 inches.
As usual, I’m driving. As usual, Bryan greets us with his standard phrase.
“SHOTGUN!”
“You can’t call ‘shotgun’ if you have a lifetime ban,” Steve says, also as usual. “That’s why it’s called ‘lifetime.’”
“Come on! That was, like, five years ago.”
“Lifetime, man,” Calvin says, echoing Steve. “Now get in the back.”
Bryan looks as if he’s about to argue, but instead sighs and climbs in. This is a democracy, and the majority has spoken. To me, the drive to the mountain is a type of high-energy meditation, a sacred space in which everyone is free to practice their own pre-pow rituals. Sleep, drink copious amounts of coffee, listen to Enya—all belief systems are accepted.
One role, however, has absolute sanctity. That is copilot, more casually known as “shotgun.” It’s a position that’s equal parts navigator, waiter, secretary, DJ and conversationalist. Failure to execute can mean tragedy.
Such was the case five years ago, midway through the 10-ish-hour drive from Bellingham, WA to Whitefish, MT. It’s usually a simple trip, but Bryan, riding copilot, decided to take us on a “shortcut” through the wheat fields of eastern Washington state.
Until that point, we had ignored Bryan’s shotgun shortcomings because of his general passion. No one’s love of skiing is more infectious, and his ability to maintain an occasionally annoying level of optimism makes him a quasi-mascot.
Then Bryan fell asleep. While sleeping, he missed a critical turn, leading us into an area with no service or road signs. Already multiple hours off course, we spent a few more backtracking until the storm we were supposed to catch in Whitefish left us in an endless whiteout. Exhaustion eventually forced into a cheap hotel at the eastern edge of Coeur d’Alene, ID. By the time we arrived in Montana, well after first chair, we were all too tired and pissed to ski.
It set the mood for the week, and earned Bryan his lifetime ban.
By the time we arrive in Revelstoke for this trip, temperatures have spiked, turning 20 inches of powder into ideal pond-skimming conditions. To make things worse, the forecast is calling for a cold front, ensuring days of frozen chunder. We are not happy humans. Except for Bryan.
“I forgot how cool this place is!” he says from the back, after waking from a multi-hour nap. “Give the groomers a little time, and I bet the piste is going to be epic!”
It isn’t. There are not enough snow cats in the world to fix this situation. But Bryan continues gushing while he skitters over icy moguls. At the end of each day, he somehow entices us to the local aquatic center, then to the bar afterward. Each morning, he motivates us with coffee and breakfast. And on each chairlift or skintrack, he points out memorable lines from previous trips, and envisions others for the future. In Bryan’s mind, it’s all epic—and if it’s not, well, it will be eventually.
United by our shared misery, we go from melancholy to amused, and when the snow returns on our final day, our anger is more tragic comedy than actual frustration. Besides, Bryan is already hyping up for next year’s trip and the storm that’s supposed to hit home in a few days.
As we load the car, Bryan slides into the back, for once forgoing the standard verbal battle. Over the roof, I look at Steve. Steve looks at Calvin, who’s about to open the passenger-side door.
“Hey Bryan, do you want to ride shotgun?” Calvin says. “I’m tired of all the legroom.”
Bryan looks up, eyes wide, before scrambling into the front seat for the first time in a half-decade. Then he promptly falls asleep, and, for once, no one says a word.
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Failure to Execute
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