Bad decisions are rarely made in the light of day. Whether it’s literally, figuratively or metaphorically speaking, the poorly chosen decision is generally made quickly and in the veiled darkness of heightened emotions. Logic, however, is a daylight-balanced entity; devoid of any wayward confusion…confusion born of lust, seduction and need. So it was, in the dusk of an early March day that we made that ill decision. In the dark grip of desire, a dirty, gratuitous lust for steep skiing and the relative fame of ski town notoriety, we would ski the Lizard headwall. That day.
The headwall is steep, it’s exposed, it’s scary, but it’s not Everest. On a good day, on a dozen different routes it is easily ski-able by an expert skier confident in skiing steep exposed terrain. On a good day. There were only two problems with this particular day. One, it wasn’t good; the snow was unpredictable and had a slight rain crust. And two, it wasn’t day. The catch with the Lizard headwall is that it’s a permanent closure and a real thorn in the side of patrol. So, if one wants to ski the headwall, one chooses to do so in bad snow, bad light and, unavoidably, bad intentions. With intentions focused on the good and ignoring the inevitable fall of daylight we made our slow slog up the bootpack to Polar Peak. It was sunny and warm; I could feel the natural high of oxygen rushing in my bloodstream. We reached Polar and relaxed in the hot sun until the wind picked up and turned sweat into icy coolant on our skin. Zipping up our jackets and gearing up we watched the sun slowly sinking into the earth. The race was on.
There’s an inevitable point in the decision making process where a person questions their choices. It’s a place that we’ve all visited. Hours, days, even years later a person will look back at this brief point in time and say to himself “Yes, I knew it was wrong…” or, possibly, “Why didn’t I listen to myself?” It’s a frustrating retrospect. As I stepped into my bindings, I thought nervously about the disappearing light, the dodgy snow, my relative inexperience in steep terrain. Yet, my nervousness was surpassed by the burden of what the Latin-American people call machismo, my own insecurities being overwhelmed by my exaggerated strength. So, in silent defeat and quiet apprehension, I buckled up and followed my ski partners, Yasha and Matt, into the darkness.
“Is this Heiko’s run?” I enquired. I knew Heikos to be the easiest of routes off the rockband and had set my sights on it earlier.
“I think so,” replied Yasha, not sounding like he thought so at all.
“Well, where is Greg’s Run?” I followed, trying to get a grasp on how much he knew.
“I don’t know. It’s pretty steep eh?”
“Yeah, hard to see…” I answered.
Matt is quiet. Yasha waits, too long, then speaks.
“Well let’s ski this, I think it’s Heiko’s”
Think? I’m getting uncomfortable. Where are we? Too many questions.
“I’m dropping in. Watch me, k?”
“But…Ok, be careful”
Agonizing minutes grind by. The steeps of the rockband swallow all mention of Yasha’s route. We wait in silent fear.
“Where is he?” I say to Matt expecting no answer.
Silence. For too long.
“There he is.” Matt replies, that buoyant air of hope in his voice. “I’m going next. You mind?”
I look down, 1500 vertical feet down, searching through the falling darkness for a sign of Yash. Finally, I make him out, barely. Fuck. It is dark.
“You mind Mike?”
“Huh? Yeah, yeah, go ahead” I reply without doing the required math. The math that equates to this; skiing this hellish wall of crusty snow in the darkest light of the three of us. Before I can take back my offer and try to strike a new deal with a game of paper, rock, scissors, Matt is gone. Three turns into the run, making confident, practiced jump turns down the face.
It’s just me now. Standing on top of the ridge, trying to keep positive. Anxiously waiting for Matt so I can get going and get off this horrible ridge. Eventually, I see Matt appear at the bottom, he’s merely a dark blob now. I can barely discern him and Yasha exchanging celebratory pole-fives, no doubt relieved and feeling safe. It seems unfair, that they should be so comfortable while I stand here trying to keep my head clear. I think back to an hour earlier on the peak. That moment of question seems so clear now, I should have turned around. I should have swallowed my pride and skied Polar chutes back inbounds, headed to the daylodge and bought a big mug of draft. But I didn’t.
The first turn is always the hardest in a no-fall zone. The uncomfortable weight of commitment sits heavily on my mind as I drop into what I think is Greg’s run. Later, days after the adrenaline is gone and my knees are stilled a local will tell me the route we skied is a first descent, previously considered to be unskiable. Had I known this during that first, tension-filled turn I would not have followed Yasha and Matt’s tracks. I would have figured out something, anything to get me off that ridge without having to actually ski it. However, the consequences of my decisions were in charge now. My destiny was in the grip of the mountain, and the night.
“What’s below me?!” I bellow as loud as I can to the two figures standing below the seemingly monstrous cliff I am perched on. I am furious at them and at myself. The tracks they left have led me to a precarious lookout high above the wide fans that spread out from below the headwall. The pitch is steep, the snow is crusty and any slip-up will surely result in a mangled pelvis, spine or limb. The rock I uncovered two turns into the run has left me unnerved and frustrated with my choices. Why did I do this? What the hell am I doing here? I search in vain for the exit point to this thoroughly unenjoyable run. At this point, it is pure darkness, not even the light of the moon aids my fruitless search. Matt and Yasha are yelling at me, trying to explain what I need to do. Unfortunately, their directions become mumbles in the wind before the sound waves can reach my piqued eardrums. Just as I’m starting to size up the blind 80-footer to less-than-steep transition, my eye catches faint evidence of ski tracks across icy rime. Cautiously, I step towards the dark abyss they lead to. It’s a chute. A fucking 3-foot wide chute with a dogleg to who knows where. And it’s too dark to see where this bastard takes me. It makes me angry.
Seeing that I have found the apparent way out, the voices from below suddenly become more animated, screaming louder at me, desperately trying to tell me something important. An approval? A warning? Go? No? Frustrated, pissed off and scared, I make the decision to point ‘em. After all, both guys must have done the same and they look safe enough. Somehow, my inner dialogue fails to rest my racing mind. The choice has been made though. I step to the plate, put on my big boy pants and push off into the void.
With my knees flexed and in the full glory of outhouse style, I commit to the devilish straightline. Dropping into the unknown, into the night, unaware of what lies ahead. The acceleration is beautiful, the ride is short and, admittedly, exhilarating. A huge granite face streaks by, so close, on my left. It’s not so much seen as sensed by my heightened awareness. Jack London once wrote, “There is an ecstasy that marks the summit of life, and beyond which life cannot rise. And such is the paradox of living, this ecstasy comes when one is most alive, and it comes as a complete forgetfulness that one is alive”. For a short moment I am lost in that ecstasy, in the moment, unsure of my fate and very aware of my mortality. I may be maimed, I may even die. Dramatic? Yes. But in this moment, in this minuscule slice of time, I am alive. I am living.
In the darkness, vision is impaired. We lose the ability to distinguish the nuances of the terrain and pick the best line possible. Much as in life, the darkness of these situations can hold us back.
They restrict our choices and prevent us from taking our chosen path, the path we are most comfortable with. As free creatures, it frustrates us to be limited. To be controlled. But ultimately, in our lives, that same darkness, those same limits are what challenge us. They make us stronger and more resilient. Logic may be fueled by the clear and free path of daylight but logic does not push us. Logic doesn’t put that knot in your gut. Logic can’t make your balls tighten up and your knees shake, leaving you to question your own integrity, your strength. Logic leaves that to the thrilling path of chance, to the dark night.
As I emerge from the chute, going much faster than preferred, problem-solving skills running overtime, I view my freedom. A quick right turn, digging in, scrubbing speed and I’m out of the rockband and onto the wide fan of snow below. With night-vision enabled I open up my turns making wide, graceful arcs through the snow. Within a minute I am standing beside my friends, high fives are exchanged and smiles are shared. We look at each other, our eyes on fire with that intense glow that can only arise from the conquest of personal challenge.
“How was that Mike?” Yasha asks, mischievous smile on his lips.
“Not bad,” I reply with false bravado, machismo kicking in again “bit dark though”.
- Mike Berard