Words: KADE KRICHKO 2024-02-08 07:07:47
One door closes, as another one opens. Kade Krichko, handling business on a memorable trip to Island Lake Lodge, Fernie, BC. Photo: Andrew Marshall I once dropped my sister into a snowmaking pond. You can ask her, it’s true. We’d almost made it to the end of the day, but loading the detachable quad with our two cousins, a sudden, mechanical lurch knocked Kori off balance. My older cousin and I tried to save the situation, grabbing at her jacket and trying to pull her onto the now-accelerating chair. As she started to slip through our mitted hands, an orange safety net above the pond came into view. We nodded at each other and, figuring it would be a softer landing than the frozen snowbanks on either side, let go. It turns out those nets are perfect for catching poles and gloves. Humans? Not so much. We watched in horror as my sister dunked into the water before the net rebounded her skyward. In the end, some soaked outerwear and soggy boots were the worst of her wear, but the story has lived on in familial infamy for over a decade since. Even though every retelling is tinged with laughter, we all end up going through a mental checklist. What could we have done differently that day? We should have moved over and made more room. We should have put her on the end so she could have grabbed the chair instead of thin air. We should have worn gloves—we would have had better grip. But I know what really went wrong: We should have never called last run. Skiers are superstitious to a fault—just ask the snow dancers, the ski bonfire enthusiasts, and the folks still wearing their undies inside out. With so much uncertainty looming in this mercurial pastime of ours, we place added importance in the divine, and rarely is that more prevalent than our proclamation of last run. As we ski heathens know, to claim a final descent opens the door for all kinds of bizarre bad luck—a crash on the cat track, an iced-over lift seat, a B-Lot parking ticket. To avoid celestial consequence, we have resigned ourselves to escaping disaster by bending language in our favor. It’s not “last run,” but rather “two more skip the last”—a term that somehow slides under the bad fortune censors. It works, ask your dad. Now fast forward a few years. My sister is wearing dry outerwear again, but the afternoon sun is once again dipping low. As editor of this fine publication for the last four winters, I’ve been lucky enough to celebrate some of skiing’s amazing people and places through the words and photos of our sport’s greatest modern documentarians. I’ve met countless friends in the mountains and said bye to a few too. I’ve gotten to roll with one of the best professional posses in the sport and am no doubt better for it. Oh, and I’ve taken a whole lot of turns, though never quite enough. Still, it feels like the right hour. The lifties are taking down the rope lines, and red jackets are gathering near the patrol hut. I’m tired, but even jelly legs can’t overshadow my gratitude. For this time. For this sport. For skiers like you. I may never be the best skier on the mountain, but now that I’m choosing my words carefully, I know that I’m the luckiest. Thank you for one hell of a run. Save me two more, skip the last.
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LAST RUN
https://digital.theskijournal.com/articles/last-run