TOP TO BOTTOM “We may have been soaked at Crystal Mountain, but a little potent potable on the chairlift warmed us from the inside out.” Photo: Colin Clancy Trash-bag skiing may not be the most glam-orous affair, but sometimes the means are worth the ends. Suiting up for the deluge at Crystal Mountain, MI. Photo: Colin Clancy At lunchtime, Geoff mans the parking-lot grill while Robbie, Maggie Walters, Adam Watson, and Brad and Mara Russell sit in a semicircle of camp chairs swapping Crystal stories, like the one about the cops surrounding our college ski team party. We’d crammed three ski teams worth of people and kegs into the garage and, at the count of three, burst out like bats from hell, high-stepping through knee-deep snow into the woods, hiding behind skinny lodgepole pines. Years later, my heartbeat accelerates with the telling of the story. Mara, a liquor distributor by trade, hands around a canned vodka concoction, dubbed “Mom Water.” I grab a blueberry-peach “Linda” and take a swig. The conversation changes to the nagging injuries of getting older. Of the seven of us, I count at least five bum knees, two bad backs, and lots of general soreness. For me it’s a persistent ankle injury that flared up to softball size a few weeks ago. I’m walking with a cane, and putting on a ski boot involves closing my eyes, biting my lip and jamming my foot down like I’m trying to stuff loose sausage into a casing. After lunch, the rain picks up—the kind that soaks clear through Gore-Tex and stains hands with seepage from glove leather. Wet base layers make us shiver but don’t deter us. Maggie and Robbie poke head and arm holes in trash bags for a few runs, but it is too late for that; we are already sop-ping. The snow, though, remains surprisingly firm and fast, as if our wills for good skiing have overpowered the weather. Tomorrow, only Maggie, Robbie, Adam and myself will continue the journey north, so I try to savor every run with the full group.
The Ski Journal Volume 17, Issue 1: Page 67
