Summary of Day One - Solitude Mountain Resort
We awoke on the foggy morn of January 7th, 2011 the day of our Lord, at approximately 6:30 am MST. Snake-eyes was up first and rallied the troops, just like old times. The continental breakfast provided by the base camp was promptly devoured, with only crumbs and the shredded remnants of orange and banana peels remaining. It was time to move out, and the reader must understand that in the Tennessee Militia and especially under the leadership of Snake-eyes, not a moment of time is ever wasted. We hustled out to our vehicles, waited impatiently for our windows to defrost, and finally proceeded to convoy to our first destination: "Solitude Mountain Resort", which we had codenamed "Sierra Oscar Lima India Tango Uniform Delta Echo" so that no one would know.
Leaving the safety of the basin, we followed a winding sinuous path still enshrouded in an eerie early morning fog.
Worry set in. And, just when we thought all was lost, the fog dissipated and there appeared on our right the fabled Solitude! Just like Snake-eyes predicted!
"Sierra Oscar Lima India Tango Uniform Delta Echo" is a mountain that boasts of a peak elevation of 10,035 ft, which was larger than any mountain I had ever personally been willing to do more than admire from afar. The Old Squad bravely dismounted their vehicles, dawned their equipment, filled their pockets with various snacks, and rallied around Snake-eyes for the mission briefing."Red Rooster and Buttercup", he said in his commanding voice, pointing in the distance, "you two hit the green slopes. Keep on the lookout for anything suspicious. Hammerclaw, Stinger, and King Cobra - follow me to the black diamonds! If anybody sees Charlie, radio for backup. Rendezvous at high noon in the lodge. Heads on a swivel, boys! Move out!" And, we did - Buttercup and I to the greens, and the rest of the Old Squad to the blacks. If the reader had not guessed already, "Charlie" was our militia lingo for skunks.
My skiing abilities can be described with the terms "woefully unskilled" or "utterly hopeless", and so I breathed a sigh of relief when Snake-eyes assigned me to the green, or beginner, slopes. So, with the unabated courage of lion and the stupefying ignorance of a goldfish, Buttercup and I headed out. It is much to my shame to say that, by lunchtime, I had wiped-out a grand total of 42 times and rolled downhill for an estimated total of 200 yards. Any iota of self-esteem and dignity I had was quickly shriveling away, as a spider web shrivels to the touch. According to my projections, the next four days would be filled with much pain, and perhaps even weeping and gnashing of teeth.
Enter the Joel - an old pal of Snake-eyes, a 20 year veteran in the Confederate Forces, former audiologist, skiing extraordinaire, and generally cool dude. He was the just the man for such a time, and it was just the time for such a man. Joel graciously took Buttercup and I under his wing and coached us along, step by step, fall after fall. 'Ere long, I could turn left! I could turn right! Behold, I could stop! By my own volition! After our conquest of the green slopes was complete, Joel, like a motherly blue-jay nudges her young chirping babes out of the comfort of the nest, nudged us out of the comfort of the greens and over to the formidable blue slopes. But, alas! With every descent, apprehensions and fears slowly melted away, giving way to courage and certitude. O death, where is your sting? O grave, where is your victory?
Lunchtime arrived, and we rendezvoused at the ski lodge. My stomach had transformed itself into a carnivorous abyss, only to be satiated by the finest herb-marinated chicken breast sandwich.
After lunch, Buttercup and Joel returned to the blue slopes, and I joined forces with King Cobra and Hammerclaw, perhaps foolishly. King Cobra, in his eternal wisdom, suggested we turn up the intensity and expand our search into the black diamonds. I heaved a heavy sigh of resignation and lifted my eyes to heaven. There was no convincing him otherwise, so I did the only thing I could do - follow him. Very closely.
We disembark the ski-lift, glide down to a flat crossroads area where various trails branch off, and approach the edge of a rather precipitous precipice. I waddled to the edge with great caution and peered over to a) survey the first black diamond I had ever seen, and b) evaluate the likelihood of my survival. The trail was just as I had imagined - littered with mangled ski poles, lost ski equipment half buried in the snow, and what appeared to be the remains of many skiers who have foolishly gone before me, all of which not bode well for my confidence. Not to mention my chances at survival. But, before I had time to reason or remonstrate with King Cobra, he had already zoomed halfway down the initial chute! I said a quick prayer, closed my eyes, and zoomed down in his tracks at an alarming rate of speed.
The next thing I remember, I was laying peacefully in a large mound of soft snow with both skis 20 ft uphill. I was relieved to discover no broken bones. I gathered myself, dusted my jacket off, spit out some snow, and commenced to trudge uphill to retrieve my skis. Trudging uphill in several feet of snow, I quickly discovered, was rather exhausting, perhaps due to the rarefied atmosphere at this elevation. Once you reach them, you must refasten your ski boots back into your skis, which becomes particularly difficult in deep snow because they sink deeper and deeper with each attempt. But, King Cobra!, forever abounding in patience!, waited downhill as I slowly and not-so-steadily made my descent, which would mark my first ever successful black diamond, if such can be said.
The resort closed at 4 pm. The Old Squad returned to the base camp, neutralized the odorous effects of accumulated perspiration, and proceeded to downtown Salt Lake City, where we would devour basket upon basket of tortilla chips and salsa at the Red Iguana Mexican Restaurant. With appetites satisfied at last, we returned to base camp, relaxed in the hot tub, and finally retired to the quarters, depleted of energy.
Day One StatisticsTotal number of wipe outs: 67
Number of black diamonds attempted: 1
Total number of injuries incurred by The Old Squad: 0
Most frequently used phrase: "What a disaster."
Number of Charlie sightings: 0
Summary of Day Two - Snowbird Mountain Resort
Saturday, January 8th, 2011. It took a Herculean effort to move any part of my body the following morning. The legs, which felt like they had been beaten with steel rods, initially were not willing to cooperate with my mental commands. The hips, which had bore much of the brunt of the 67 falls, did likewise. The lower back, shoulders, and abdominal muscles felt as if they had been pelted with stones, and were not much more compliant. After minutes of rolling around, the overwhelming need to evacuate about a gallon of bodily fluids finally provided the catalyst needed to rouse myself from my supine state. I limped down to the cafeteria where everybody was engaged in the ravenous consumption of grains, fruits and dairy products, and did the same.
With The Old Squad having rested and refueled, we dashed out the door and leaped into our entourage of vehicles, buckled ourselves in accordance with Utah State Law, and prepared ourselves for another exciting day of expedition.
At 8 hours and 41 minutes ante meridiem, we arrived at the legendary "Snowbird Mountain Resort", which we promptly codenamed "Sierra November Oscar Whiskey Bravo India Romeo Delta", or just "Sierra Bravo" for short. Some called it "the jungle". And, rightfully so. It boasted of an elevation of 11,000 ft at its peak. Its terrain was rugged and untamed in comparison to Solitude, and lofty evergreens were scattered about its slopes, posing an added risk. The conditions at Snowbird were much less favorable than the previous day at Solitude. A thick fog enshrouded the mountains, reducing visibility to almost zero - a recipe for "collision city". A painful icy rain stung your cheeks and nose and any other exposed area, having the additional effect of making it seem insanely cold. It quickly became apparent that my few meager articles of clothing were powerless against the effects of the elements, all of which collectively gave me an ominous premonition that somebody, perhaps I, would not make it out of this resort unscathed. Or, alive.
Something else immediately struck me, however. Every few hundred yards, an inexplicable red streak, ranging from 2 to 3 feet in length, could be seen in the snow. Initially, I mistakenly thought these streaks to be direction markers of some sort. But, red? It didn't make sense, until I later came to discover that these streaks were not directional markers at all - but blood. Blood?? Indeed. The bloody remains of those who had probably overestimated their abilities and had paid the hefty toll. Pride, indeed, cometh before the fall.
And, my ominous premonition soon proved all too correct. Buttercup, Hammerclaw and I were once again assigned to conduct reconnaissance on the green slopes. I was waiting at the bottom of the hill for them when, lo and behold, here comes Buttercup like a giant moose of a man tumbling down the hill almost doing perfect cartwheels - skis and poles and toboggan were flung to the four corners of the earth. He finally rolled to a complete stop, covered in snow, where he lay still for a moment. Hammerclaw swiftly descended to his aid. I watched the scene unravel from afar, through the icy rain, as Buttercup made multiple attempts to stand up, but in vain. His right knee was out of commission.
We helped Buttercup back to the Snowbird Ski Lodge, where he would remain the rest of the livelong day. The collective mood was somber. I felt bad for Buttercup. After all, this could happen to anyone of us at anytime. I contemplated all this as I annihilated three New York sized slices of pizza and root beer, concluding that it would be wise to proceed with the utmost caution. But, for the readers understanding, the word "caution" is not in the Glaufenhein dictionary. Its very page had been ripped out, as Napoleon did with the word "impossible". King Cobra, who had slid down an icy black diamond face first and incurred a crude facial abrasion, insisted that this were a mere flesh wound and would not be deterred from the mission. My fickle heart was once again persuaded to join him in another perilous expedition.
As the afternoon progressed, the blue slopes became more and more comfortable. King Cobra, never one to remain in his comfort zone or allow others to remain in theirs, implored me to attempt another black diamond. (gulp). I did, and for the first time ever, did so without losing any equipment or articles of clothing! (hooray!) I learned a lesson that it is much easier said than applied, and that is: lean forward. Leaning forward when skiing seems counter-intuitive, especially when our natural response to fear is to lean backward. But the very act of leaning backwards is what causes us to lose balance and fall. Perhaps, I thought, this principle has greater implications in our lives when our fears tell us one thing and our knowledge tells us another? Once I grasped this paradoxical principle of skiing, the mental barriers began to melt away. Maybe, just maybe, I was ready to join Snake-eyes and Stinger on the fabled double black diamonds? Only time would tell...
Day Two's expedition came to a close and I felt better than ever. We convoyed back to base camp, laid siege to our soiled bodies with soap and sponge, and then laid siege to Bucca de Beppo's for our evening nourishment. With bellies full of sustenance and bodies devoid of energy, we once again retired to our quarters. For tomorrow, Snake-eyes announced, we would scour the hills of Brighton for signs of Charlie.
Day Two StatisticsTotal number of wipe outs: 29
Number of black diamonds attempted: 4
Total number of injuries incurred by The Old Squad: 1
Most frequently used word: "Pain." (and variations thereof)
Number of Charlie sightings: 0
(To be continued...)
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