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The Search

I'm still searching for that day. That feeling. I know it's out there, I've caught glimpses of it, I've approached it, but, so far, nothing has equaled that first season of powder skiing. Nothing has touched those first two turns.

Every year Jay Peak would open new glades and every year we would add to our own discoveries. Each patch of forest between all runs was fair game. Sometimes our searches were in vain and the tangled underbrush just led to more tangled underbrush. Sometimes the impenetrable woods gave way to cleverly concealed lines…only to close up just as a rhythm was being found. It was a dance that I'm still learning the steps to.

And somewhere in the midst of this they opened the Face. Of course, by "open" I mean "put it on the trail map." A couple of narrow shots down the ice, rocks, and scrub pine. A new proving ground that was first attempted in the thickness of fog (all the better to conceal one's spasticity from the tram above). To be honest, the Face didn't do much for us. The wind usually scoured it free of powder and the gaper quotient was often a little too high. "Overrated," was the final assessment.

The Ridge, however, was a different story. A secret so poorly guarded that even back then it could hardly qualify as such. Staring up at the tram house, the Ridge extends to the left in an almost unbroken display of virtually unskiable cliffs and stunted pines. "Almost" being the key word. I'm not giving anything away by pointing out the slight dip in the contour and the short shot of snow beneath it. The Saddle as it is well known. The easiest way to get below the junk and onto the apron below.

Unless you're the first one there after a storm, chances are the same scattering of rocks will return your gaze from roughly half way down the short chute. As it turns out, this somewhat of an advantage because at least you can see them. If not, you're liable to ski over them and suffer a core shot for your troubles. Three turns and a hop to straight-line is basically all it takes, but standing on the wind lip, staring down the gullet for the first time, the knees do tend to shake.

Which is perhaps why my friend opted for a line slightly left of it on our first attempt. He didn't like the looks of those rocks one bit. Me, I wasn't so concerned. My skis were just about due for replacing, and, to be honest, I was never as concerned about damage as others might be. I let him go first and watched him take a tentative stab at the first turn. His line avoided the wind lip but took a narrower path through a couple trees before entering an unknown quantity of scrub above the apron. A couple sideslips to get himself psyched and he was ready to charge.

That's when the infamous Jay Peak Root made its presence known. A tip caught, a body twirled, and there he goes, taking his pristine line on his stomach. A human luge shoots through the steeps and over the bramble before getting flung over the billy-goat exit and onto the apron. Nicely done. Some years later, basom shows my buddy how it should have been done, capturing the action on his helmet camera.



























He's okay and I'm laughing, but my confidence isn't exactly soaring. I look down the Saddle and contemplate my first move. An easy drop in. Hope the edges hold, controlled traverse to the right hand pocket, jump turn towards the rocky middle, jump turn to point-em, pull up and land, cruise to my buddy's side with a grin in my face.

I can see it all. And the funny thing is, it pretty much happened just like that.


A Blur

I lose track of the years. They mix and meld and form one big experience in my head. Going back to pinpoint places in time is often a futile attempt. But rest assured we are still in the mid-90s and somewhere in there we moved on to University. For one of my ski buddies, this meant a move to Vancouver where, somewhat ironically, he didn't ski as much as he did when he was with us.

For T. and I it meant student passes at Jay Peak. Our first season passes of any significance. With those in hand we'd log 25 days a year at our playground and continue our exploration of the Ridge. New lines were being found - some obviously cut shots around the cliffs and through the trees, others consisting of awkward scraping and billy-goating over the rough until in decent enough position to point 'em off the last 10-feet and into the open field below. Once there, a handful of turns through knee deep snow in an unobstructed setting was the reward. After those were savoured, it was back into the woods for a bobsled run around trees and over waterfalls before being shot back onto the groomed trails.

Our course load relegated us to weekend warrior status, with only the occasional mid-week powder day warranting a round of hooky. Friday nights would often see us joining our non-skiing friends for a couple of beers which invariably led to a couple more and a blowing off of the self-imposed midnight curfew. Stumbling back to our apartment at two or three in the morning with the alarm set for 5:47 became a routine.

Mornings, of course, were rough. Groggy and somewhere between hung over and still slightly drunk, our faith would waver. Why were we up? Was this really worth it? The only thing keeping either of us from voicing doubt was an unwillingness to bow before the other. Peer pressure can be a fine thing and once the car was pushed out of the snow bank, once the road was behind us, and once our gear was spread out over two tables in the Tram Haus Lodge, all negative thoughts were behind us.

We'd usually get there by eight. A full half hour before things were set to open. We'd be relaxed about getting geared up, we'd fuel up on granola bars and Gatorade, we'd shoot the shit until we were good and ready to go stand in the tram line for the first ride of the day. Not even a flat tire could keep us from our half-hour chill time. An explosive pothole had us making the fastest tire change in history in order to still be at the hill by eight.

Ah, to be that young again.

Somewhere in those late nineties my buddy spent a year overseas and I spent a season scamming rides, renting cars, and skiing with my Dad. His style never changed, he still skied by brute force, but he was always game to follow me around, or at least meet me at the bottom. Somewhere in there talk of Tuckerman Ravine started circulating. A mystique hung around it and we spoke in a reverence that made us nervous. Somewhere in there fatter, shapelier skis were tried and on our first test run, on the coldest day of the year at Owl's Head (-30 C without windchill), we bombed down the hill laying the most confident arcs of our lives, grins frozen to our faces. Speed barriers were being broken and another aspect was opening before us.

We only had weekends so we would ski no matter what. Hung over? No excuse. Too cold? Please. Raining? Fewer crowds. Ice, powder, groomed. Trees, bumps, cruisers. We took what we received and counted ourselves lucky.

But somewhere in there I landed a 360 slightly askew. And I felt my left knee let go.



Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8


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