I had my black powder suit on that day, heating me up as it absorbed the intense high altitude rays. Off came the hat, mittens, and goggles; down came the zipper, but still I sweated. Reaching the steeper portion of the ridge, I began side-stepping up, staring south into the sun at the Heber Valley. Soon, I took my skis off, hoisted them rifle style onto my shoulders, and dragged my boots into and out of the three-foot deeps pits left by the earlier hikers. The snow steps lasted only a short while, and I switched back to a skis-on side step, right foot leading. The temptation was great to cut over at this point, just below the gully, skipping the steep upper third of the hill. But the face above was still clean, and no way was I going to traverse across someone’s potential tracks, despite my wet armpits and shaky thighs.
After stopping three times to let three faster climbers by (and passing three others myself), I left the main route heading on up to the north face chutes, and cut over to the highest of the east face gullies. Totally exhausted as I reached the crest, I plopped down on a drift to watch someone drop over the blind entry. As I replaced my goggles and mittens, and zipped up the front of my suit, I watched him tentatively find his line with his first three or four turns, and smoothly settle into the subtle rhythmic weight changes of untracked deep powder skiing. I felt a stir of trepidation, the first I’d experienced in my skiing for a long time.
It was not a fear of injury. I think it was at Mammoth Mountain that I lost all my worries about ending a run in an ultimate, unstoppable, spine-wrenching, life-draining fall. I was just beginning to explore the whole mountain, still afraid of some runs. Especially after riding up the gondola and watching, directly beneath me on Climax, someone fall at the start of the run and go head first, all the way to the bottom, narrowly skirting the deadly rocks between Climax and Cornice. We docked before that person stopped falling, and I was in a somber mood as I traversed the ridge to the far left, towards Dave’s Run. Once, there, I meet a wind howling at 40 miles an hour; the snow had been ripped from a rock hard, glass smooth base.
For some reason, I associate successfully completing the run down that ice rink with my final loss of physical fear in skiing. No matter how sharply I turned, the steepness of the slope forced an acceleration as my edges released. But reaching out to the ice with my pole tips, and gripping the slippery surface anew with my uphill edges consistently, I was able to calm my fears, and remain standing until the end of the run.
Since then, I have implicitly trusted my body, and realised that it knows much better how to ski than my conscious mind does. After all, it’s the nerves and muscles that do all the work; why not let them run the show, rather then some ephemeral evolutionary anomaly like consciousness, created by an overactive and at times unnecessary cerebral cortex? My most enjoyable moments skiing seem to come when my mind is just part of the audience.
The audience! Yes, that was my trepidation on this day at the summit of Alta. I knew, although I couldn’t see them yet, that once over the lip into the chute, I would be a single object of attention for all those coming off the Germania and Sugarloaf lifts. People standing around, idly wondering which run to take, casually adjusting buckles, gloves, and goggles, would look up and be forced to follow my every move. As my predecessor finished his run, invisible below me, I actually heard applause and whistles. In a way, I hoped it wasn’t for him, for that would mean people were warming up to the show, and I was the next one down.
At these times in skiing, it is important to clear one’s mind, to say one’s mantra, whatever it is. Some ski freaks will shout at this point, screeching like some psychedelic cowboy or crazed Swiss yodeler. I prefer to simply repeat to myself the obvious truth that, at this point, there is only one way to go, and that is DOWN.
Storming into the head of the chute, my mind empty at last, I fight a few turns through the spray left by the previous three skiers, and then lock onto a virgin track right in the middle, heading straight down. I am dimly aware the, yes, I actually can ski this stuff, and then the exhilaration starts to build as I focus on the incredible feel of the snow beneath, no, around my feet. Not dry and fluffy Utah powder, but fresh and buoyant nonetheless; my Routers sink in ankle deep, the tips riding free on the surface. Knees locked, feet together, arms pumping, hips rising and falling, I imagine that I am skiing through something incredibly dense and yet quite fluid, like mercury. My body is working perfectly, my mind is totally free to feel the luscious endless depth underneath me. And, just as on that other day in the Baldy chutes, I am totally alone, with the entire mountain deserted, completely mine.
Too soon, too soon, the Sugarloaf-to-Germania traverse appears below me, signaling the start of the flats, and thus the end of my run. Usually, I don’t feel a burning need to look at my tracks, but in this case I know I have to. Leaning forward on my poles, I look back up. To me, the line seems perfect, completely symmetrical. If you’re gonna put on a show, I say to myself, you might as well do it right. I rest a minute, trying to freeze the feel of the snow and the sight of my tracks into my memory forever. A transcendent moment, putting me utterly at peace.
this is just very amazing…