A 12-hour drive, the I-15 as icy and empty as Winnipeg Arena, truckstop bean burritos, a constant revolution of skipping CDs serving as intermittent fuel to keep us awake on the long dark highway. It’s all led to here, a parking lot empty save for the massive Caterpillar snowplows perpetually wrinkling and bunching the blanket of powder that obscures the gravel below. With less than five hours till go-time we settle into our polyester cocoons with naïve hopes of restful sleep in a vehicle designed for economy, not accommodation.
My dreams are punctuated by low rumbles and high-pitched beeps. The dull glow of halogen fills the small Toyota cab, intruding on my already uncomfortable slumber. I open the driver’s door and look up into the friendly face of the plow driver. “Sorry to wake you man, but you’re parked right in my way. Move the truck over to that lot.” Then, like punctuation, a flash of a smile and a simple understated. “Tomorrow’s gonna be the day.”
Having expected to get ejected from the parking area, I’m grateful for the charity. I turn the key, bringing the tired truck to life. Under the canopy, Daryl stirs. I ignore his query, parking the truck far from the roaring diesel of the plow. I shimmy into my sleeping bag, once again starting the slow process of gathering body heat to combat the sub-zero night. Before I drift into uneasy sleep, I see the crystallized fluid of a million raindrops fluttering beneath the lampposts.
Condensation drips from the windshield onto my prone body. My knees ache; tendons and ligaments strained from 17 hours without an adequate stretch. Daylight breaks, scattering fragments of sun into our unconscious. I hear energetic laughter; the soundtrack of stoke on a 30-centimetre day. The giant clock tower points out our late wake-up and we hurry to buy our tickets. We shuffle through deep Teton snowfall and take our place in a line droning with the slow-drawl dialect of a thousand Americans.
The tram opens. The sound of 200 shuffling ski boots battling for a place inside the ancient cabin mixes with the cheers of 100 lucky people. I push my way into what seems the last available space only to be pushed further by the manic people behind me. We’re in tight. The doors shut and the legendary tram lifts off. The tram operator delivers his practiced spiel into the microphone. Daryl’s always mischievous grin is exaggerated with anticipation. We stare out into the white.
The gale that hits my face is powerful. We step onto the metal deck holding tightly to our skis, fearing the wind will pull them into the stratosphere and deposit them somewhere in Utah. With no knowledge of the terrain we follow the direction inherent to all true skiers—fall line.
As gravity exerts its pull, I pick up speed, witnessing my first turn about to materialize. This turn began two months before on a Kootenay chairlift. It has been 1,000-kilometres in the making, the manifestation of two friends’ dreams. This turn is constructed of three paycheques stowed away in the shoebox beside my bed, built from glossy magazine photos of Corbet’s Couloir, and held together with worn VHS tape—Continuum, Harvest, The Realm. In its simple arc are answers to questions I still don’t know to ask. As my skis reach deep into the flesh of the mountain, throwing Jackson Hole’s famous snow up and over my head, I realize every sacrifice, struggle and battle has been worth fighting for this one simple motion. —Mike Berard
