February 1 was the first serious day of skiing for me this year, beginning with a Friday morning drive that featured remarkable clouds in the
closing arguments of their storm. The clouds moved around the peaks and valley
quickly, breaking apart and reforming, dark grays in the middle and diamond
white along the edges. I could swear I saw a cloud cradling a huge expanse of
peaks that looked like a five hundred foot caterpillar. Skiing the afternoon
shift in a full whiteout was nice simply because it felt good to be inside a
storm and what it promised for the next day. Sunday morning began as a bluebird
but was interrupted by another storm so after a couple hours of accumulation I
was back in a cloud, skiing by Braille.
There was high quality snow in Mammoth
this past weekend, with 10-degree temps at dawn Saturday morning and a harsh
east wind blowing snow in the wrong direction, not down into the mountain
creating sumptuous sugar deposits on all faces and in gullies but a wind blowing
snow up and off of the mountain, but it didn’t really matter. This situation
always causes the amusing entry routine on the upper peaks where riders
approach ledges while covering their faces against a sandblast of a million
tiny snow crystals.
I skied alone until
I ran into John Wentworth at the bottom gondi, a figure who features strongly
in Yutaka and my paintings and drawings. He is a very fast skier, and he is
adventurous. He courts trouble. He has the long face of a sleepy criminal, a
mastermind.
Untracked cakey
feather pow was found all Saturday morning at the top of the mountain in a slot
between Huevos and Climax, though every lap required intricate maneuvering to
avoid hairball rock zones. 10 degree pow is not exactly a good binding base layer,
so again, for the second time this season a cold dump of dry light pow has
fallen on rock, so it was no surprise when a couple grand piano sized snow
slabs separated, shifted, held—did not slide, while traversing underneath Top
of the World. This was the first serious day of skiing this season. Five more
chairlifts began loading for the first time all season, 22 & 23 among them,
as well as 12, 13, and 14.
Toward the end of
the day I got petulant.
I’ve never
experienced a season so boney, I whined.
Yes, the unforgiving
rock lurking under seductive twinkling powder is a true mindfuck, Mr. Wentworth
replied.
I’m ruining my skis,
I cried.
Trying not to
destroy one’s dear skis, the prophet Wentworth continued, is a challenge we all
face, but you can’t ski with the wellbeing of your skis as the central thought
while descending a mountain.
But…
Your precious skis,
the oracle opined, are going to take a beating no matter what you do, you just
can’t put any weight into your turns.
No weight?
You’ve got to ski like Gordon Lightfoot, he said.
The guy who sang
Sundown? I asked.
Yes, Gordon
Lightfoot, the sensitive Canadian with a voice like dry light powder, and
you’ve got to pray your skis survive. You’ve got to become more like a
butterfly.
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