A Poopie Ski Story from Raymond
Glades
Look Ma, only one ski!
This tour had it's moments, such
as when I was digging a snow pit and I knocked my ski over. It
landed on the steep hill, flat on its base, and flew down the fall
line
until it disappeared from sight. Since I'm experienced with
spending hours looking for runaway skis, I was anxious to chase
it down.
But the line which moments ago seemed like a treat now looked
menacing.
After flailing down
the best part of the run and learning that I'm a horrible one legged
powder skier, I found the ski hiding behind a tree. It had caught
some air and landed like a spear in the snowpack. I recovered the
run-away beast and triumphantly mounted it to my previously crippled
feeling foot...
Slim was amazing to watch as he barreled down
the mountain on his huge swallow tail split board. In his wake,
a tall plume of powder smoke swirled high into the air. His impressive
mass combined with his equally impressive speed left me feeling
both awed and sorry for any tree that tried to cross his path.
I had seen it happen before; once, on a tour
with Slim near Mount Aire, he arrived at the bottom of the run
in an ecstatic state. He recounted how he had narrowly survived
a scrape with a tree as he picked pine shards off his jacket and
searched for tears. The way he told it, a little tree had practically
jumped out in front of him, leaving him no choice but to barrel
through it. We laughed at the encounter, but as we hiked back up
the hill side following Slim's down track, we saw the enormity
of story.
Before we got
anywhere near the tree he had collided with, we began to see the
debris. Light debris at first, but soon the slope was blanketed
in a remarkable littering of mulched pine branches, twigs, cones
and needles. This fresh scattering of pine scented organics stretched
impressively from where we stood up to a massive pine tree, 100
feet up the hill.
The bottom right side of the pine looked like it had been hit sideways
by an avalanche. The branches that had been there earlier were
completely removed, all the way to the thick trunk. But this was
no avalanche path, it was Slim's path, and it was equally impressive...
The middle part of our descent from Raymond Glades,
which I usually consider to be the crux of the run as it involves
the most bushwacking and potential to get lost, was good skiing
and quite uneventful. Slim cleared a path as he went, and I stayed
out of the way.
Near the bottom, we sped down the Porter Fork
road passing waves of pained looking backcountry travelers. Still
a good distance from the trailhead, Slim stopped to pick up a brown
bag of doggie poop that he had bagged earlier on our way up. Gingerly
carrying the bulging sack off to his side, he picked up speed
and resumed his hurtling pace down the iced over road.
I gave him and the poop wide berth and followed behind.
Once we reached peak speed, Slim's huge
split board balked at the frozen snow. Suddenly, he went down
hard. I'm not sure if he cartwheeled or just slid but his tumble
definitely went the distance because he had left a long tapering
streak of dog turd brown that went on for nearly thirty feet. I
did my best to avoid the menacing stripes and splattered clumps
while keeping an eye on the sky for any nuggets that might still
be airborne. At the terminus of the rubble, Slim lay on the ground,
frantically checking his body, not for broken parts, but for brown
smears and smudges, all while saying, "Euwe! euwe!
euwe!"
I was glad that he was okay, but not really excited
about driving home with a stinky, poopie coated passenger. Incredibly,
we discovered that he had escaped the carnage mostly unscathed,
and had a hearty laugh before continuing down, now with a half
full brown bag.
They say lightning never strikes the same place
twice. That's why I could hardly believe my eyes when once again
Slim's board seemed to just grab an edge and throw him off the
trail onto the ground. This time he sped dangerously close to a
patch of trees and the flowing creek. I swerved to avoid the new,
slightly shorter but not less impressive brown streak and to help
inspect for defiled body parts. Again, we had good laugh at the
fact that a dreaded fecal smearing had once again been mostly
avoided.
To complete our responsible dog owner gesture
without relapse, I insisted on taking the bag the rest of the way.
With little astonishment, I picked it up, discovering that the
shattered and torn bag was now completely empty.
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© 2008 foothillfreak : : Go with da fro : :