[Final Draft]
Sliding down towards the Snowbird Mall at 2 PM, I skidded to a stop, the snow spray blown to my right by a stiff wind howling upvalley. A mini tornado of food wrappers swirled nearby as I unclipped from my skis. After six trips to the top on the tram that day, my legs were rubbery from the final descent on Peruvian Gulch – Silver Fox. Four days without snow, after a two-foot dump, and the bumps resembled a tilted parking lot of white VW Beetles.
Five weeks of daily skiing the steeps had delivered an epiphany: if I kept my shoulders perpendicular to the fall line while my ankles and knees absorbed the sudden transition from peak to trough, I was able to string together four or five turns without stopping. As my legs pistoned faster, time slowed and my future route through the chaos before I had a chance to think. One more trip would cement the kinesthetics of that lesson.
That run would be number seven up the tram that day. Seven had become my daily measure of success. 21,000 vertical feet a day, 6 days a week, and I was becoming an accomplished skier. The combination of periodic deep snow falls and subsequent transition to treacherous moguls honed my skills, building a base of confidence that would last a lifetime.
Heedless of the signs of the impending storm front, I snapped my poles onto my Olin VII skis, shouldered the package, and clomped into the ominously empty loading area. Each step across the metal platform echoed from the concrete and glass walls. Up the mountain, the red cable car glided down as it passed the upward bound blue. During the 3 minutes it took to arrive, several stragglers joined me, all regulars I recognized from my daily trips to the top.
The Snowbird tram holds 120 skiers when full, all standing in a steaming mass holding their skis upright. I’d learned the drill: LIFO, Last In, First Off. Stand next to the pole at the downhill end of the sliding door and scoot off as it opened. Beat the crowd to whatever powder patch seemed least skied on the way up, Great Scott or its cousins in the Cirque.
At the uphill side of the door, the tram operator wielded his controls. Most of the time, there was little to do except throw a few switches to open, or close the door, and start the ascent by a firm push of the lever controlling the cable motor. Let the autopilot do its thing, and slow down when near the top. During that final glide-in, turn on the microphone and repeat the warning to watch for obstacles and follow the recommended route down, “Chip’s Run”. It was always Chip’s. I’d ridden so many times by now that I gave little thought to the nuances of this work, which appeared to be as simple as the now anachronistic elevator operators of years gone by.
Until today. Most of the weekday crowd had been dissuaded by the failing, fading light of an overcast sky, the lack of fresh snow and the capricious wind. A perfect time to call it a day. Except for the die-hard dozen who filed in. We each found a spot to rest our hips on the rail under the windows.
“It’s getting windy. Are they going to shut down early?” one asked the operator.
“It was OK coming down. I think we can make it one more time,” came the response.
The cable car travels 2,900 feet from the mall, taking the shortest route up. Four massive towers guide its cables, with a long dip in the ride between each. If the tram has to stop between towers, a vertical oscillation begins, bouncing upwards, dropping down in ever shorter cycles. The operators know to start up again at the bottom.
Sometimes a downslope headwind impeded the upward progress, slowing to a crawl. On this day, as we crossed over the lower ridge 1000 feet above the mall, the car shuddered as the wind hit harder, this time coming not head-on, but from the side, up the canyon from the Salt Lake valley 5,000 feet below.
Without its usual load, the car began to sway from side-to-side. At first a gentle drift, but as we passed the second tower, an unspoken chill rose among our band. All our eyes turned toward the third tower, rising on the rock outcrop at the base of the Cirque. We all sensed this unusual back and forth path would bring us directly into it.
“Um, what do you do about that?” someone asked the operator.
He said nothing. Eyes fixed on the ominous tower ahead, he pulled the lever to slow our speed, attempting to time the sway so we passed the obstacle as far to the left as possible. Up the hill, the final tower awaited. Easing the throttle, now slower, now faster, he again timed our passage to perfection.
Awed silence consumed the cabin. But one more challenge awaited. Even at the slowest speed, we still drifted side-to-side. The tram station loomed above, its Erector Set skeleton allowing little leeway to fit the giant gondola into the platform. Rubber bumpers on both the car and the landing allowed for a slight miscalculation, but without a precision entry, either the metal girders or the tram itself would be crunched.
Slower, slower still, the tram inched its way to the platform. Instead of the usual rustle towards the door, we all remained glued to our perches, gripping the rail we sat on. With two feet or so, remaining, the operator waited for the tram to center, gave one final nudge, and docked us securely at last. An audible collective sigh flowed through the cabin as the driver opened the door.
Filing out into a wind blasting against our faces, we were greeted by a whistling through the girders, screeching from the strain. A few skiers were still on top, backs to the gale, struggling to snap their boots into their bindings.
The last one off whispered, “Thanks, man.”