YODEL GETTING OFF HERE BELOW Maverick Mountain, MT. Photo: Greg Von Doersten Words Kim Stravers s someone neither terribly fast nor daring, my encoun-ters with the warmly uniformed ski patrol tend to be of the Dick Van Dyke or Benny Hill variety: brief, humorous and overwhelmingly, embarrassingly, my fault. I’ve never had a pass punched or pulled, been berated or instigated a Smokey and the Bandit -style chase out a backcountry gate. I’ve also never needed their services, mercifully—unless you count whispered on-chair insider beta about what’s about to crack next on a powder day, or putting up the ropes to keep my curious ass off a deceptively inviting cliff, or, you know, ski cutting and Howitzer-ing and hand-charging stubborn slabs. But lifties? Oh, I’ve met lifties—mostly right before drop-ping in. I lived in the mountains for seven years, full-time and year-round. I still get anxious every time the chair gets level with the bullwheel. I do the best I can to maximize my chances of a successful exit, strategically and not always subtly positioning myself to the outside of the bench while in line at the bottom. Sometimes it’s a shell-game shuffle with friends who know better than to put me between them; sometimes it’s picking the singles line that merges me into a stranger’s right shoulder. But I do try. While never graceful, most of the time I slide off with-out incident. A few times a season, usually when the wind’s A scoured all the carefully raked and shoveled duff from the ramp, I’ll know I’m going to eat it—and I will eat it, though with some measure of dignity and maneuvering to avoid a chair to the skull or ski edge to my back. Inevitably, the lift crew is there as witness, snickering while staying alert in case first aid is warranted. Whatever. It’s happened to us all. But have you ever, like, brought an entire lift to a complete and sudden halt? One rather deserted Monday morning at Snowmass, CO, some friends and I were heading up for another go at some boot-top powder, laughing and paying little attention, as you do. Pushing off the chair, I meant to veer right, but some com-bination of karma and topography (and klutziness and inertia and hangover) intervened and I slid out to the left—way left. So far left, if fact, that I managed to wrap rather around the tower and somehow hit the power cord like a tripwire. Plug disengaged, the happy rhythmic clack of chairs slowed, I went boiler-hot under my goggles and the whole. Damn. Thing. Stopped. Yes, it was swiftly restarted. Yes, I’m thankful that gaiters were up and the boys running the show were able to disguise what surely were jaws dropped in both surprise and silent howling laughter. No, I didn’t take another lap on that chair. I also didn’t go to the bar that night and overhear one of them recounting the most ridiculous story (hopefully) of their season. It’s not always so shattering, though. There was the time I rode Chair 25 solo on a weekday afternoon and crested the rise in time to hear a lone male liftie absolutely blaring Katy Perry’s “Teenage Dream” and fist-pumping along in the shack. There’s also the late-spring day when a girlfriend and I had Chair 8 on repeat, slush-slashing in T-shirts with tallboys of PBR in hand and “Lookin’ good, ladies!” rather startlingly blared over the PA as we skated off the ramp. We raised the roof in return. Despite many folks getting their start in a mountain town by running the lifts, some audible smack talk can still be heard around what are typically seasonal kids barely old enough to rent a car—some of it warranted. (I’m looking at you, instant local.) But I have a soft spot for this ever-changing cadre of skiers who stand there shoveling and shivering while the rest of us go make a mogul-y mess of the powder those lifties can see, but not touch. 028 The Ski Journal
The Ski Journal Volume 12, Issue 3: Page 28
