I am lucky enough to been on skis
just last week (June!). A couple days ago driving over Turnagain Pass I could
see lines on Tincan Peak still holding enough snow for some long runs. But I expect not to ski again this season due
more to my schedule than to conditions.
So I’ll perform a quick post-mortem
on the season which began in October with the dream of skiing a Himalayan peak.
This didn’t happen, but not for lack of effort, including mostly the effort of
our Nepalese porter who carried my Rossignols about a 130 miles. I had a great time at the Tour of Anchorage, the
local cross-country ski race, and am inspired to race even harder next
year. The downside to the season would
be the downhill racing season at Alyeska: just abysmal. Slow and tentative. Maybe only once did I
complete my two runs without crashing and burning. Some exhilarating moments nonetheless.
Probably I just didn’t ski enough at the resort to ever find mid-season form.
I
had a great day skiing from Arctic to Indian, a 23-mile day in perfect weather
with Dave Ward and his daughter, Suzanne.
A long day and good preparation for our recent nine day expedition on
the Harding Icefield, days of heaven. More about that trip another time.
One
of my more memorable days of skiing was late season on the Chester Creek, an
urban trail that winds through a sliver of wild land. Sunday morning, early, and I hadn’t
encountered a single person. But up
ahead, on the trail two men were stopped, obviously waiting for me to approach. I slowed to a stop. Two Native men.
“Are
you training for the Olympics?”
“No,
no, just out for some exercise.”
“How
much are those skis worth, eh?”
This
set off my inner alarm system, probably a moment or two late.
One was short, the other
slight. But I was on skis and there’s a
kind of vulnerability there. You could
be knocked off your feet easily. I am
usually thinking about this in regards to possible moose encounter.
I
downplayed the value of the skis, which was in fact true—they weren’t worth
much, but I sounded like a liar to myself, as I tried to explain.
The
shorter man said suddenly, “Why are white people such mean motherfuckers?”
“I
know,” I said, “There 're a lot of pricks
out there.” This was when I noticed that
his eye was swollen shut, blackened.
“Butch,”
his friend said.
“This
motherfucker,” the shorter guy continued, “I jacked him good.” And suddenly he
had closed the space between us and imitated a powerful uppercut with a tremendous
burst of energy.
“Butch,”
his friend said, “This isn’t the same guy.”
I had way underestimated Butch’s power, and, naively, not even considered his
bitterness.
“So,
where are you guys going?” I asked.
“We’ve
got a foxhole out in the woods.” He gestured
outward at the frozen forest.
“Where
are you from?” I asked.
“Kotzebue.”
(For
you non-Alaskans, that’s about 1,000 miles from Anchorage and no roads go
there.)
Despite
the small talk, Butch was still agitated, bouncing on the balls of his feet
like a boxer between rounds. It was
clear that his friend was familiar with the role of keeping Butch out of trouble. Also clear was that he was not always
successful.
“Stay
warm you guys, I have to move on,” and I pushed past them into the morning
fog. When I got a few meters down the
trail, I pushed harder, sprinted, and I didn’t look back.
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