In the skies above Fernie shines a light called Heiko’s Star. It’s named after Heiko Socher, the eccentric Elk Valley local responsible for seeding the roots of what is now known as Fernie Alpine Resort. Of course, the star is not an actual heavenly body, but a bright light affixed to the top-drive station of the Boomerang chair. Some parts of the year Heiko’s Star can be seen shining through the thick of an autumn fog or a crystal clear summer’s twilight. When November rolls around, however, the light is often eclipsed, shrouded by the frequent winter storms that coat the valley in deep Rocky Mountain powder. Come winter, this elementary fact provides one with valuable information: When Heiko’s Star is absent, it’s going to be good.
As a new resident to the tiny ski town, I quickly learned that when raindrops begin to stream down the smoke-stained windows of the raucous pub, not all is lost. While the sodden scene outside provoked others to add fuel to an already burning inferno of drinking, I would put on my jacket and make the short trek outside and around the corner of the building to look towards my celestial indicator, illuminating the steep fall lines of Boomerang and Bear Chutes. If the star was shining bright through the downpour, I made my way back inside and ordered another round; if it was hidden behind the ensuing storm, I continued home, content that up high the snow was pounding and tomorrow would be epic.
Over the years, late-night celebrations became a fixture in my ski-town existence. The transient nature of ski towns combined with the recklessness of youth often collided in the pub. The result was an overabundance of friends who faded in and out of my life for years to follow. At first it was thrilling to have a steady procession of quirky foreigners, curmudgeonly locals and free-loving party girls in my life; all made an impact on my time in Babylon. But as seasons turned to years and years gathered toward the decade milestone, I started to feel ephemeral sadness. Each spring my single-season friends would slowly trickle out of town, on their way back to planting trees and waiting girlfriends. We’d promise to stay in touch as people always do, but in the end, we rarely did.
I’ve lost contact with most I shared those days with, but I’ve made peace with the fact that most of them were drunken Aussies and women of ill-repute. Occasionally though, I’ll share a chairlift with one of them, and every time I’m reminded of the experiences skiing has afforded me. I am grateful for so much more than the mere powder turns that most skiers equate with perfection in this wonderful sport. I realize it’s not the tracks or the turns themselves that make this lifestyle; it’s the people you share them with. And later, when we’re three pitchers down, immersed in a game of Foozball and the rain begins to fall, I have faith that Heiko’s Star will always will be the light that guides me home. —Mike Berard
{ 3 comments… read them below or add one }
awesome. simply awesome
Thanks Reuben. I’m happy you enjoyed it.
What a great story Mike. How jeaulous I am.
Thanks!