Chasing the Storm
Posted by Steve Bagley
Arrived alone at the dawn of December. Acquired cheap digs with a cast-iron wood stove and ample room for my gear. Landed a ski tech gig at the local shop, which became the last and most essential means to support the habit.
“Sweet, dude,” I thought. And I camped out. Waiting for the storm.
It takes a certain kind of tact, a certain nose for observance that allows one, if he or she possesses the will, to walk into a new town as a stranger and quickly assimilate into the local way of life for the purpose of both perspective-shift and survival. Beer drinking does not only qualify as a great pastime, burden or conqueror of inhibitions, it also serves as a key to conversation and philosophy that is otherwise hidden under a buffer zone of human-isolating, self-conscious garble. Swig after swig. Gulp after gulp. Empty glass after satisfying empty glass- sometimes at the tool bench and sometimes at the bar, I proceeded to get plastered off the undeniably hardcore lager of ski-bum philosophy; revolving solely around what is consensually considered the sport’s greatest accomplishment: making the decision to ride mountains at every possible God-given chance. No questions asked. I cannot state it anymore accurately than that. I found this thought form to have roots in both Sartre-esque existentialism as well as Taoism. However, more applicably, I think it can be visualized as a path traveled alone in a wilderness of infinite harmonious flow and interconnection. This has defined my time here in the mountains.
I met Rusty, the ski tech with thirty years of experience under his belt. And Dave, the freeskiing, shit talking Masshole turned New Hampshirite. And then there was Craig, the quiet, tripped-way-too-many-times-on-acid visionary and encyclopedia of backcountry skiing. Then there was Rodger, my alcoholic and partly brain-damaged yet still somehow cunning businessman/number crunching no-idea-how-this-guy-does-so-well boss; whose ownership of four ski shops in town qualified him as “Emperor”, tentatively by New Hampshire standards, surely by his own. Just to give you an idea of this guy, the first time I met him his hair was reaching up and out in every direction, he had huge glasses, his face was all scraped up, and he had two lazy eyes that kind of drifted and bobbled around in the direction his head moved (kind of like how the powerball numbers tend to bounce around in the air-chamber before being randomly dropped into the winning number slot). So anyways, he looked like he had drank two bottles of whiskey, climbed halfway up the mountain in the dark, locked into his skis and rode all but twenty feet downhill before colliding dramatically with a tree. And apparently that is just what had happened.
As the season progressed more and more lonely ski jocks seemed to show up here. Snow fell. We drank whiskey, chased married women, banded together, shared war stories, and, most importantly, we skied. We held sessions in the park, snuck brews on the chairlift, passed bowls in the gondola and skied off the trails into mountain terrain so isolated and treacherous that without local knowledge and skill, a first-timer would surely find himself perched atop the endangered-species list. That is not an exaggeration. The camaraderie we developed, I would suspect, is not very different from any another sub-culture dedicated to (1) freedom and (2) the riding of H2O particles in any of their transient forms.
Often we would find ourselves red-cheeked on pitchers of beer after a long day of finding grooves and harmonies with the mountain. I would look around at these other rag-tag ski-fools that had somehow, by the will of the universe, been thrown here into this place with me; and I would listen intently as they traded stories about the mountain as if she was some black haired sex-goddess with long eyelashes and red nipples, who had once given them a taste of her intoxicating juices, showed them something intimate and divine—and forever leashed them to her, trapping them in a hopeless, end-of-the-Earth chase for just one more taste of that sweet, sweet pussy…
And I too began to feel the lure and pull…
So what is one of the most natural reactions that one faces in the realization that free will not only exists but CAN also be limitlessly exercised? Doubt, undoubtedly. I questioned the validity of my reasoning that led up to the decision to come here. After all, I left a healthy Massachusetts economy with a generous job market. I left free food and a warm bed and a loving family. Perhaps, I thought, I was so absorbed in chasing that sweet pussy that I’d become more than just a little out of touch with the world at large. You see, in a ski village sandwiched by mountains it is hard to stay current with, say, the smooth harmony of world politics, or perhaps the charming and unpredictable conditions gracefully granted to us by the Gods of Pop-Culture Imperium. Then one night around the bonfire I thought to myself. Would staying in touch with these distracting comforts have preserved my sanity? Fuck no.
It had been gone for a long time. (I think its somewhere on the side of a Tennessee highway right now, but that’s another story entirely).
So along with my lifestyle I absorbed a different taste of culture, a different kind of madness, and indulged in true mountain existence. Surely, I did not come here to drink with crusty locals. But I did, and I do, and I love it. And I did not come here to witness the shocking decay of elderly mountain-folk. Yet I do. And it freaks me out to no end. In fact, the last time I think I saw so many trucker hats on the heads of frail and withered cigarette smokers was Sorority Row, UMass Amherst, 2004.
I went on to figure- in the sense of a true Taoist- that inviting doubt on my journey would be more than burdensome on this path for one. I knew only one thing for certain in this place. Riding mountains got us closer to the source. Secondly, such ventures, in this particular business, required heavy snowstorms. So now, every morning before work I peer out my window with binoculars like an old general- waiting for the next storm on the horizon- waiting to ride the sacred pow. And still, from my humble hermitage I see the sunrise bleed bright orange over the rocky-tops high up on the Kancamagus Pass and once again I decide that it is, after all, a futile endeavor to call in sick to work today since the storm, the sweet pussy, the Godhead, continues to elude me. Then late one night, I heard the weather report that I had been waiting for- three feet of snow somewhere between New Hampshire, Vermont and Canada. Perhaps the last of the season. We would get that one more taste if we were to cast aside all else in order to open a window of opportunity for us big-mountain riders to snatch just a little more euphoria. And in the end, our search would lead us face to face with dangerous mountains, pink slips, eviction notices and even the dooming possibility of jail time.
Arrived alone at the dawn of December. Acquired cheap digs with a cast-iron wood stove and ample room for my gear. Landed a ski tech gig at the local shop, which became the last and most essential means to support the habit.
“Sweet, dude,” I thought. And I camped out. Waiting for the storm.
It takes a certain kind of tact, a certain nose for observance that allows one, if he or she possesses the will, to walk into a new town as a stranger and quickly assimilate into the local way of life for the purpose of both perspective-shift and survival. Beer drinking does not only qualify as a great pastime, burden or conqueror of inhibitions, it also serves as a key to conversation and philosophy that is otherwise hidden under a buffer zone of human-isolating, self-conscious garble. Swig after swig. Gulp after gulp. Empty glass after satisfying empty glass- sometimes at the tool bench and sometimes at the bar, I proceeded to get plastered off the undeniably hardcore lager of ski-bum philosophy; revolving solely around what is consensually considered the sport’s greatest accomplishment: making the decision to ride mountains at every possible God-given chance. No questions asked. I cannot state it anymore accurately than that. I found this thought form to have roots in both Sartre-esque existentialism as well as Taoism. However, more applicably, I think it can be visualized as a path traveled alone in a wilderness of infinite harmonious flow and interconnection. This has defined my time here in the mountains.
I met Rusty, the ski tech with thirty years of experience under his belt. And Dave, the freeskiing, shit talking Masshole turned New Hampshirite. And then there was Craig, the quiet, tripped-way-too-many-times-on-acid visionary and encyclopedia of backcountry skiing. Then there was Rodger, my alcoholic and partly brain-damaged yet still somehow cunning businessman/number crunching no-idea-how-this-guy-does-so-well boss; whose ownership of four ski shops in town qualified him as “Emperor”, tentatively by New Hampshire standards, surely by his own. Just to give you an idea of this guy, the first time I met him his hair was reaching up and out in every direction, he had huge glasses, his face was all scraped up, and he had two lazy eyes that kind of drifted and bobbled around in the direction his head moved (kind of like how the powerball numbers tend to bounce around in the air-chamber before being randomly dropped into the winning number slot). So anyways, he looked like he had drank two bottles of whiskey, climbed halfway up the mountain in the dark, locked into his skis and rode all but twenty feet downhill before colliding dramatically with a tree. And apparently that is just what had happened.
As the season progressed more and more lonely ski jocks seemed to show up here. Snow fell. We drank whiskey, chased married women, banded together, shared war stories, and, most importantly, we skied. We held sessions in the park, snuck brews on the chairlift, passed bowls in the gondola and skied off the trails into mountain terrain so isolated and treacherous that without local knowledge and skill, a first-timer would surely find himself perched atop the endangered-species list. That is not an exaggeration. The camaraderie we developed, I would suspect, is not very different from any another sub-culture dedicated to (1) freedom and (2) the riding of H2O particles in any of their transient forms.
Often we would find ourselves red-cheeked on pitchers of beer after a long day of finding grooves and harmonies with the mountain. I would look around at these other rag-tag ski-fools that had somehow, by the will of the universe, been thrown here into this place with me; and I would listen intently as they traded stories about the mountain as if she was some black haired sex-goddess with long eyelashes and red nipples, who had once given them a taste of her intoxicating juices, showed them something intimate and divine—and forever leashed them to her, trapping them in a hopeless, end-of-the-Earth chase for just one more taste of that sweet, sweet pussy…
And I too began to feel the lure and pull…
So what is one of the most natural reactions that one faces in the realization that free will not only exists but CAN also be limitlessly exercised? Doubt, undoubtedly. I questioned the validity of my reasoning that led up to the decision to come here. After all, I left a healthy Massachusetts economy with a generous job market. I left free food and a warm bed and a loving family. Perhaps, I thought, I was so absorbed in chasing that sweet pussy that I’d become more than just a little out of touch with the world at large. You see, in a ski village sandwiched by mountains it is hard to stay current with, say, the smooth harmony of world politics, or perhaps the charming and unpredictable conditions gracefully granted to us by the Gods of Pop-Culture Imperium. Then one night around the bonfire I thought to myself. Would staying in touch with these distracting comforts have preserved my sanity? Fuck no.
It had been gone for a long time. (I think its somewhere on the side of a Tennessee highway right now, but that’s another story entirely).
So along with my lifestyle I absorbed a different taste of culture, a different kind of madness, and indulged in true mountain existence. Surely, I did not come here to drink with crusty locals. But I did, and I do, and I love it. And I did not come here to witness the shocking decay of elderly mountain-folk. Yet I do. And it freaks me out to no end. In fact, the last time I think I saw so many trucker hats on the heads of frail and withered cigarette smokers was Sorority Row, UMass Amherst, 2004.
I went on to figure- in the sense of a true Taoist- that inviting doubt on my journey would be more than burdensome on this path for one. I knew only one thing for certain in this place. Riding mountains got us closer to the source. Secondly, such ventures, in this particular business, required heavy snowstorms. So now, every morning before work I peer out my window with binoculars like an old general- waiting for the next storm on the horizon- waiting to ride the sacred pow. And still, from my humble hermitage I see the sunrise bleed bright orange over the rocky-tops high up on the Kancamagus Pass and once again I decide that it is, after all, a futile endeavor to call in sick to work today since the storm, the sweet pussy, the Godhead, continues to elude me. Then late one night, I heard the weather report that I had been waiting for- three feet of snow somewhere between New Hampshire, Vermont and Canada. Perhaps the last of the season. We would get that one more taste if we were to cast aside all else in order to open a window of opportunity for us big-mountain riders to snatch just a little more euphoria. And in the end, our search would lead us face to face with dangerous mountains, pink slips, eviction notices and even the dooming possibility of jail time.
This entry was posted by Ben Myers, on
Sunday, March 26, 2006.
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