Summary of Day Three - Brighton Mountain Resort
Sunday, January 9th. For whatever reason, I awoke on January the 9th, 2011 the same way I probably awoke on January 9th, 1987 - ridiculously early and full of energy. The biggest difference, I suppose, was that I wasn't eating a bowl of Lucky Charms while watching Mr. Wizard's World, or playing Pole Position on Atari. I leaped from the bed with unusual vigor, hastily dressed for breakfast, and glanced myself over in the mirror before greeting the brave new world. Despite how good I felt, I was shocked to see how haggard and beaten-down I looked, and suddenly realized why those ladies I had tried to make friendly conversation with at the ski lodge had looked at me with such repugnance and horror. Perhaps, I thought, I should keep my ski mask on next time?
I waltzed down the hall and into the cafeteria area, greeted the cafeteria lady, and sat down with Buttercup, who was seemed to be focusing his energies on the mastication of a waffle. Naturally, I was concerned about his knee after yesterday's tumultuous tumble, so I inquired about it. Much to my relief, he said it felt much better, enough so that he could even rejoin the ranks of The Old Squad in our grand expedition. As he was talking, though, another startling revelation dawned upon me. Perhaps, it was the mastication process itself - the elongation of the jaw and its subsequent closing and expansion of the cheeks - that finally made me realize he bore a striking resemblance to actor Dan Ackroyd, one of my childhood heroes due to his role in "Ghostbusters". I wasn't sure if he'd be pleased with this comparison, so I refrained from saying anything. But, let the noble reader judge for his or her self:
When The Old Squad had finished eradicating the remnants of their curds and whey, they bid farewell to the warmth and safety of the base camp and greeted the great outdoors, where a fresh layer of snow had fallen overnight. To ordinary men, this might pose a problem. But, the members of The Old Squad are far from ordinary. Snake-eyes, with his commanding voice, took charge and directed us all to our battle stations: Hammerclaw used a hammer and chisel to remove the ice from the windshield; King Cobra used small explosives to remove the massive snowdrifts blocking our exit from the parking lot; Snake-eyes and Stinger did combat rolls back and forth from the cars in a valiant effort to load the equipment; Buttercup wrestled a venomous colony of snow snakes; meanwhile, I did what I do best - forage the area for snacks and yummy treats, which I am proud to say that I discovered a large supply hidden in a nearby vending machine. And, just like that, we were off!
...through the snow-laden streets!
...over the mountainous terrain!
...where our entourage of vehicles finally arrived at Brighton Mountain Resort, or as we called it - "Checkpoint 143", at approximately 8:39 am MST. With the peak at a respectable elevation of 10,750 ft, it was more awe-inspiring than any mortal eye from Tennessee had ever witnessed:
A cold front had swept through overnight, which had caused the temperature to plummet to a staggering 3 degrees. This, of course, did not bode well for my fleece gloves, which I had foolishly neglected to dry out the previous night and, when exposed to the crisp 3 degree air, froze solid on my hands. I might at well have worn ice cubes on my hands. Or, maybe fishnets. Notwithstanding, King Cobra and Snake-eyes took no pity on me, for the word "weakness" is nowhere to be found in their vocabulary.
Being among the first to arrive, we were entitled with the privilege of carving up the virgin snow with gay abandon. And, The Old Squad wasted no time in spearheading the attack on the great mountain. A green line was quickly subjugated for a warm-up. A nameless blue line was effortlessly conquered. The rest of the day was spent scouring the black diamonds for Charlie. I was feeling better than ever, until King Cobra took me aside and pointed to the following peak and said, "Red Rooster, I need your help. Snake-eyes radioed in, reporting a possible Charlie sighting up there in the bowl. Follow me!":
The "bowl" that King Cobra referred to was the fabled double-black diamond named "The Widowmaker". I stood in awe at the base of the mountain, weighing the proposition on the balances of reason. The inner economist in me coldly calculated the risk-to-reward ratio of such an endeavor; while the inner savage barbarian in me urged me on; while the future father and husband in me pleaded more consideration. But, before I could reason or remonstrate with King Cobra, he was already on the ski lift! Gulp. I girded my loins, took the next available ski lift, and blindly followed him to dizzying heights, questioning my sanity and soundness of mind:
The time had come. This is where we separate the mice from the men, the wheat from the chaff. Without hesitation, Snake-eyes and Stinger zoomed down the precipitous precipice at terrifying speeds. Hammerclaw and King Cobra looked me. I looked at them. I looked downhill. Pairs of glowing eyes could be seen in the distant treeline - probably a pack of famished coyotes eagerly awaiting my demise. I lifted my eyes towards the heavens where buzzards circled overhead, cawing louder and louder as I inched my way closer to the edge. I glanced back at Hammerclaw and King Cobra. They nodded, as if to say, "The time for your great trial has come, Red Rooster. Go ahead. We'll follow close behind and pick up your skis and poles, and administer medical treatment if necessary." I nodded back, as if to ask, "Did you bring the smelling salts? Just in case?", to which they nodded back, as if to say, "Affirmative." I peered over the edge and involuntarily uttered an audible groan from the depths of my soul. And, down I went.
(For the reader's knowledge, the definition of a double-black diamond is, "a trail intended only for the most experienced skiers with exceptionally steep slopes and other hazards such as narrow trails, exposure to wind, and the presence of obstacles such as steep drop-offs or trees.")
I descended the "The Widowmaker" as slowly as humanly possible, in an almost horizontal fashion. Side-to-side I went, stopping frequently to rest. Any remnant of deodorant that had steadfastly endured until now was quickly vanishing. But, there was no time to worry about offensive body odors under the present conditions. Life and death were at stake. Or, at least serious injury. Side-to-side I continued, steadily descending the deathtrap. It took some time, and may even be considered as evidence for the existence of modern day miracles, but somehow I eventually reached the bottom of "The Widowmaker" with all 206 bones in my body still intact. I couldn't believe it. I breathed a sigh of relief. The flock of buzzards overhead dispersed in disappointment. The coyotes howled their songs of discontent. Nature's predators would have to look elsewhere for an easy 185 lb lunch.
The Glaufenhiens continued to push me beyond my physical and mental limits, and by the end of the day, we had dominated countless black diamonds, two precarious double-black diamonds, moguls, and even a few jumps. We came. We saw. We conquered:
Day Three of Operation Tango, by leaps and bounds, proved to be my personal favorite. I find it intriguing how much our individual personalities are revealed on the slopes. Being one of cautious and timid disposition, it naturally follows that my approach to the slopes, or anything new for that matter, is cautious and timid. This circumspection remains until there is sufficient confidence in my abilities to outweigh the fear. On the other hand, the Glaufenheins tend to throw caution to the wayside and embrace danger with reckless abandon, unfazed by the effects of fear. They are cut from a different fabric, or perhaps, a different breed altogether?
After a long day of dominating the hills, The Old Squad dominated T-Kono's - a Japanese hibachi grill dinner. Count it!
Day Three Statistics:
Total number of wipe outs: 16
Number of black diamonds attempted: Numerous!
Number of double black diamonds attempted: 2
Cumulative total number of injuries incurred by The Old Squad: 1
Most frequently used phrase: "Keep those smelling salts ready in hand, King Cobra."
Number of Charlie sightings: 0
Summary of Day Four - Back to the Jungle
Monday, January 10th. At breakfast that morning, Snake-eyes didn't say much to anybody. He had rearranged with his spoon, perhaps subconsciously, the letters of his Alpha-bit cereal to spell out words like "CHARLIE", and "NO SKUNKS", and "LIES LIES LIES ". He was visibly vexed, and his eyes looked bloodshot, perhaps due to a sleepless night. In fact, he was beginning to remind of me of Captain Ahab and his monomaniacal quest for the White Whale. Admittedly, it would be considerably difficult to ski with one false leg made of whalebone, or in our case, skunk bones; but, if there were one man who could pull it off, it would be Snake-eyes.
On the other side of the table, he had unfolded a map of Snowbird and was marking it with a pen. "Here!" he said, as he unsheathed his serrated jungle knife and thrust it into the map, puncturing the wooden table. "Sierra Bravo! That's where we're going, boys. Back to the jungle! Suit up and move out!" My eyes grew wide at those ominous words, uttered with such a tone of unwavering determination. I was secretly hoping we would return to Brighton, as Snowbird had been the site of so much pain, tears, and bloodshed. But, as they say, Snake-eyes knows best. I hastily polished off the remains of my morning repast and prepared for what would become the most adventurous day yet.
And so, to "Sierra Bravo" we returned. Or, as normal civilians called it, Snowbird. The sky was still hazy, obscuring the light of the sun. It was still bitterly cold. And, the frigid wind still howled, perhaps even louder than it did on Day Two. I could feel the cumulative effects of this bitterly cold wind upon my chapped and chaffed nose, lips and cheeks. The one redeeming factor was that there were no mysterious streaks of blood in the snow this time - and, in this, I took great comfort.
Snake-eyes was first in line at the ski lifts. He was bending down, sifting handfuls of snows through his fingers, like sand. "Charlie...", he muttered. At this, he gave the signal to rally around him - a high pitched whistle. The Old Squad, almost instinctively, rallied around him. The morning sun was breaking over the horizon behind him, almost creating a halo around his head.
He spoke, and with each word, a puff of breath was could be seen in the cold crisp morning Utah air. "Gentlemen," he said in his powerful authoritative voice, "it's Day Four of Operation Tango. Your legs ache. You're exhausted. You can barely feel your fingers and toes. Your ration supplies of yummy snacks have rapidly dwindled to dangerously low levels. But! Is this not where The Old Squad thrives?! Did we not raid Raccoon Mountain under much more inauspicious conditions in 1997? Did we not search for and rescue Dean Chicowksi's runaway chicken under the unrelenting snowstorm of 1994? The finish line draweth nigh, my good men! Our glory dwelleth in yonder hills! Now," he said with ski poles uplifted towards the lofty mountain peaks, "follow me to the black diamonds, boys!"
There is something about Snake-eyes - he has always had a commanding presence about him, one that would inspire courage into even the weakest and most fickle of hearts. At these words, The Old Squad, filled with inspiration, released a battle cry so loud and stentorian, the mountains seemed to tremble and quake. "Long live Snake-eyes! And, long live The Old Squad!!", we cried with uplifted poles.
"To Johnson's Last Stand!", cried Snake-eyes. I found this name oddly coincidental, but this is where we spent the majority of the morning investigating:
Despite its ominous name, our treatment of "Johnson's Last Stand" can be described with two words: unbridled subjugation. Every square inch was scoured for any sign of Charlie.
Unbridled subjugation of mother nature, however, doesn't come without paying the price. Day Four of Operation Tango played host to many painful falls, two of which I remember most vividly:
1) Newton's First Law of Motion states, "Every object in a state of uniform motion tends to remain in that state of motion unless an external force is applied to it." I fell victim to this very "external force" Newton so eloquently described on a slope named "The Eviscerator". A well concealed tree root snagged my left ski, while zooming along at a moderately high rate of speed, sending me reeling airborne for about 10 ft. Thankfully, my already aching body landed in a mound of soft powdery snow.
2) Newton's Third Law of Motion states, "For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction." The action, in this case, was my right ski crossing over my left ski whilst trying to turn left at a moderate rate of speed on a moderate grade of hill. The reaction, in accordance with these immutable laws of physics, was me falling headlong onto the icy packed snow. This had happened dozens of times before, but never so hard. I could feel my cranium bounce off the icy snow, like a basketball, which was accompanied by an audible "crunch" in my neck. Needless to say, this was painful.
The Old Squad used every tactic and strategy in the book to hunt down Charlie. Buttercup even used his tried-and-true lure method, using this 2-inch long "snot-cicle" as bait:
But, to no avail! Despite another 8-hour exhaustive search under every stone, into every crevice, and over the entire face of the mountain - no signs of Charlie could be found!
By 4:00 pm, the sun was beginning to set over the horizon, and the resort was closing its doors. We had no choice but to call off the search, much to the chagrin of Snake-eyes. "Next year.." he kept muttering, "next year, Charlie." We had an 8:00 pm flight to catch, and there was no time to cry over spilled milk. We needed to return to Rocky Top. And, in a hurry.
Day Four Statistics
Total number of wipe outs: 24
Number of black diamonds attempted: Numerous!
Number of double black diamonds attempted: 7
Cumulative total number of injuries incurred by The Old Squad: 3
Total tubes of chapstick lost: 1
Most frequently used phrase: "Total Subjugation"
Number of Charlie sightings: 0
Final Thoughts
What can we say? Operation Tango, that four day conquest of nature and inquiry into the veracity of a local Rocky Top rumor, was over. Had the battle been fought valiantly? Yes. Had there been physical injury? Unfortunately, yes. Buttercup, as we know, had injured his knee on Day Two. Day Four witnessed two more casualties: Stinger, while descending "The Bone Mangler", had tumbled down, resulting in three torn knee ligaments. And, King Cobra, while descending "The Line of Much Sorrow and Regret", had somehow overextended his left knee in a fall, and more embarrassingly, wet his pants in the process. Had there been any truth to the rumor about skunks seeking refuge in the Wasatch Mountains? Unfortunately, no. Even so, shall we categorically conclude that Operation Tango was an abysmal failure? Well, certain questions should be left for the reader to decide.
I would be remiss if I neglected to mention the fact that we had all worn the same clothes over the entirety of Operation Tango. At least, I did. Moreover, there had not been sufficient time or facility to shower after Day Four at Snowbird. One can imagine, as we convoyed from Snowbird to Salt Lake City International Airport to catch our 8:00 pm flight, how this myriad of odors from body and clothing would offend the nostrils and olfactory senses of anyone within a 5 foot radius. Some of us were not overly concerned about this. Others, however, expressed pity for whoever the poor passenger who would unknowingly be condemned to sit next to us on the flight.
I would also be remiss if I neglected to mention our extraordinary return flight. In the spirit of adventure and frugality, Snake-eyes thought it would be best to fly "standby". But, for brevity's sake, I will refrain from expounding further. If you wish to know the details, dear reader, take a trip down to the Rocky Top Café and look for a tall lanky man wearing a coonskin cap, deerskin moccasins, and gray sweatpants. That's me. They call me... "Red Rooster".
I would also be remiss if I neglected to mention our extraordinary return flight. In the spirit of adventure and frugality, Snake-eyes thought it would be best to fly "standby". But, for brevity's sake, I will refrain from expounding further. If you wish to know the details, dear reader, take a trip down to the Rocky Top Café and look for a tall lanky man wearing a coonskin cap, deerskin moccasins, and gray sweatpants. That's me. They call me... "Red Rooster".
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