Devil's Run (23 page)

The retail end of the
ski shop was relatively small. Most of the space was reserved for the guests’
equipment and the workshop area. The ski check was a conveyor system like the
ones you see in a dry cleaning store. The workshop had four tuning benches, a
small rack of rentals, a fitting area with chairs, and a couple of boot ovens. There
was only one employee, a technician working on a pair of skis at one of the
benches. He looked up as I approached.

“Mr. Craig?”

“Guilty as charged.”

He offered a
well-calloused hand. “I am Klaus. I will be fitting you today.”

There was only the slightest
hint of an accent, but he seemed to be part of the Austrian crowd, although a
little farther along in years than the others I’d seen.

He looked me over. “You
are perhaps 187 centimeters, 80 kilograms?”

“You’ll have to
translate for me.”

“My apologies. That is a
little over six feet and about one hundred eighty pounds.”

“Close enough. You
people should work in a carnival.”

“What is your experience
level?”

“Is there something
called sloppy intermediate?”

He cocked his head and
looked at me with a slight smile. “I suspect you are a man who tends to be
conservative when appraising his own abilities. In any case,” he said, picking
up the skis he’d been working on, “these should be sufficient. They are of the
K2 manufacturer, from the Apache line. It is a fine all-mountain ski.”

“I should probably
mention I’ve only skied back East. Are the trails groomed?”

“Our guests say they are
manicured,” he said, chuckling at his own joke. “Yes, you will find most of our
trails groomed, so the skiing will be similar to your East Coast, but with much
better snow, of course. Much less ice. If you do choose to venture into deep
powder, the performance of this ski will be acceptable, but not optimal.” He
pointed at my feet. “Now we will prepare the boots. Oh and how do you prefer
the sensitivity of your bindings?”

“First time in years,
and on new skis? I want them to bust open if I look at them cross-eyed.”

He laughed. “I
understand.”

A short time after that I
was fully equipped and ready to go, complete with a helmet, which Klaus assured
me nearly everyone wore now. Just in time, too. Cory Canfield entered just as
we finished, resplendent in a skin tight snowsuit of roughly the same red as
her dress the night before. With her were her husband, Bryce Randolph, Jeffrey
Boyd, and Günter. Boyd wore an expensive looking white parka with black side
panels and orange piping. Not surprisingly, he was one of those guys who skis
with the jacket zipped open, no hat, and designer sunglasses instead of
goggles. Canfield, goggled and helmeted, was dressed in a dignified Navy blue,
but Randolph’s yellow and black parka made him look like a giant canary. At
least he would be easy to spot in an emergency.

Cory brightened when she
saw me. She smiled and waved, yelling, “Hi, Nick!” She bounced over to me.”

“Good morning, Mrs.
Canfield,” I said.

“Stop that! I told you
to call me Cory. Hey, hi Klaus!”

“Mrs. Canfield, always a
pleasure. If you are ready I will get your skis.”

He went over to the ski
check counter and tapped on a keyboard. Cory and the others followed him over.
I hoisted my skis onto my shoulder and clumped over to join them.

“Please,” said Klaus to
Cory, pointing with an open hand at a card reader.

She pulled out her room
key and swiped it through the slot. The contraption behind Klaus rattled and
pairs of skis trooped past. A few moments later, it stopped and presented a
pair of short white skis. There was a little hiss and a locking clamp around
the bindings popped open. Klaus lifted the skis, noticeably wider than mine,
off the rack and handed them over the counter towards Cory, who made no move to
take them. Instead, Günter stepped in and took them from him.

 Klaus raised both
hands to Cory, palms up, as if offering a plate of food. “I wish you an
outstanding day, Mrs. Canfield.”

“Thanks, Klaus.” Then to
me she said, “Come on outside, Nick.”

I followed her outside,
Günter following with her skis. He placed them in the snow and stood by while
she stepped into the bindings. Then he walked over to a wooden rack and picked
up his own skis.

It was nearly
eight-thirty and the sun was bright, but the thin air was extremely cold. My
face was already feeling pinched and frozen. I propped the skis on the rack and
pulled on the UnderArmour balaclava Klaus had recommended. The thin, stretchy
fabric served as both a face mask and helmet liner. The helmet itself turned
out to be surprisingly comfortable, and was probably a good idea considering
how long it had been since I’d worn a pair of skis.

 The other members
of our group trooped out one by one and began gearing up. I put the K2’s down
in front of the large trail map and stepped into the bindings, stamping each
foot a couple of times against the snow. The bindings felt solid. I leaned on
my poles and examined the map.

The Retreat had
its own set of trails, separate from the public resort. Eventually most
intersected with a narrow trail of the public resort that wound down from the
top of the main gondola. Diablo Canyon’s private runs currently consisted of
one black diamond, two intermediates, a green trail for beginners, and the
triple black diamond that I had seen from the tramway. Six dotted lines
represented future trails not yet cut and there was a straight red line indicating
the route of a future lift. Only two of the open runs began from where we were
standing,
Corrida del Diablo
and Easy Street, the green trail. The
others began further down the mountain.

“Ready?” said Boyd.

I continued looking at
the trail map. “Where we off to?”

“Let’s do Devil’s Run.
You feel up to it?”

“Oh, Jeff,” said Cory,
“that’s not fair to Nick.” She turned to me. “Right?”

“Maybe I should get my
feet wet first.”

“Then we should take
Easy Street,” said Boyd, nodding towards Cory, “for the sake of the ladies.”

I smiled at him. “Let’s
concede your dick is bigger, shall we?”

Cory laughed, but Boyd
looked a little perplexed at my response to his schoolyard bully psychology.

“Frankly, Jeff,” said
Canfield, “I’d like an easy start as well.”

“Fine,” he said, and
pushed off towards the lift station, which was about thirty feet away. He
skated around it and into the trees.

“Don’t listen to Jeff,”
said Cory, “just have fun.”

She adjusted her goggles
and followed Boyd. Günter stayed with her like a faithful dog. Or minder; I
couldn’t figure out the dynamic. Canfield and Randolph paired up behind them,
leaving me odd man out.

I skated after them,
picking up speed, the feeling familiar and welcome. The snow was as smooth as
confectioner’s sugar. I picked up speed quickly, and was able to stop skating
shortly after passing the lift station.

Easy Street was also the
right of way for the chair lift, and I began using the green metal pylons like slalom
gates, cutting around them in increasingly sharper turns. My muscles remembered
what to do with no awkwardness or hesitation, and the skis themselves seemed to
anticipate my needs. I only had to roll my ankles and they responded. Feeling
confident, I pointed straight down the hill and dropped into a tuck to pick up
speed. I soon caught up to the others.

After a quarter mile the
narrow passage opened into a broad meadow, the trail marked only by the
groomer’s corduroy. This part of the mountain was completely exposed to the
sun, and I had a sudden rush of feeling, like nothing I’d felt in a long time,
reveling in the glorious day, lost in the feel of the snow beneath the skis,
and the sheer joy of physical effort.

Boyd was still in the
lead. He stopped in a showy spray of snow near the other side of the meadow.
The others joined him, coming to a halt in a staggered line. I skied past them
and stopped alongside Boyd.

The wind was strong in
the open. A steady stream of snow particles blew across the meadow, about a
foot above the ground. My clothing kept me warm, but any exposed skin froze up
quickly. I adjusted my goggles and balaclava to cover some bare spots on my
face.

“Easy Street, we stay to
the right,” said Boyd, obviously considering me illiterate, since there was a
sign. “Those other two are intermediate runs, and you can still cut into
Devil’s Run,” he pointed to the west end of the meadow, “over there.”

“You’ve got kind of a
hard on for this Devil’s Run.’

“I like to challenge
myself.”

“Don’t let me stop you.”

“Anyway,” he said, “all
these trails cross Mountain Road about three quarters of a mile down. That’s
the outermost trail of the main area. If we take this blue trail here,” he
pointed with a pole, “Upper Mountain Road, we have a nice long run to the
mid-lodge at Spanish Mountain.”

“We’re going into the
main area?”

“We’ll have to,” said
Cory.

“All of these trails.”
said Boyd, “bypass the chairlift station, except for Easy Street. You have to
go into the main area and take the express gondola up the center there, and
then take a couple of trails to our chairlift.”

“Seems inconvenient.”

“For now,” said Boyd.
“If the need arises we just task a Sno-Cat to running guests up and down. We’re
putting in our own gondola next summer, once we get the permits worked out and
the Greens off our back.” He planted his ski poles. “What’ll it be?”

“Let’s do the blue, if
it’s okay with the others,” I said, turning to them.

“No problem,” said Cory,
pushing off ahead of everyone, catching Günter a little by surprise. He skated
after her, Canfield and Randolph close behind.

“Ready?” said Boyd.

“Yes.”

The slope dropped away
at a slightly sharper angle than the trail we’d been on. Boyd ate it up,
showing off his considerable skill by passing Cory and taking a distant lead. I
soon passed Canfield and Randolph, and then Günter and Cory, realizing that all
those years skiing the narrow, bumpy, and usually icy slopes of Vermont and New
York made me well equipped to handle this sort of thing. I could only imagine
what Easy Street must have been like, because Upper Mountain Road seemed mild
for an intermediate run, so broad and undulating I was chafing for something
more challenging within a couple of hundred yards. Boyd seemed to know, because
I came over a rise to find him waiting in the middle of the trail. I slid to a
stop next to him, while the others stopped above, staying in their pairs, which
I found a little odd. At the very least, Canfield should be skiing with his
wife.

Cory whipped out her
camera and snapped some pictures of us.

“Feel like a little
fresh powder?” said Boyd.

“Sure.”

“Then come on.”

He skated over to the
side of the trail and then into the trees. The deep powder parted like surf
around his knees. I followed him in, only to have my skis dive like twin submarines
and stop suddenly. The bindings released and momentum carried me on. I turned
slightly to avoid hitting face first and landed on my right shoulder. The waist
deep snow exploded around me like a sugary hand grenade. The rest of the world
was momentarily blocked out by this mini blizzard.

Since I had essentially
fallen into the equivalent of a thick feather bed, I was uninjured. However,
when I tried to stand up, I found there was nothing to grab onto. I floundered
around for a few moments widening and deepening my little foxhole until I was
finally able to get to my feet.

Cory was about fifteen
feet above me, leaning on her poles and snapping pictures. Günter, beside her,
looked as if he was posing for Mt. Rushmore. Canfield and Bryce were above and
behind them, both smiling broadly.

“You okay?” said Cory.

“I’ll live.”

“Don’t ski pow-pow much,
do you?” said Cory.

“Where I come from,
powder is something you put on a baby’s butt. I miss my ice.”

“Those aren’t really deep
powder skis,” yelled Boyd from below. “Try sitting back a little and keep the
skis closer together. Helps keep the tips from burrowing.”

“I’ll make a note.”

I noticed that Günter,
the actual ski instructor, was not offering me any tips. Well, perhaps he had a
rule about being paid. Or maybe he just wanted to see me hit a tree.

Canfield skied down
closer. “Don’t put pressure on your downhill ski when you turn,” he said.
“You’ll only throw yourself off balance. Make turns by pointing both feet in
the direction you want to go. Always keep your body facing downhill, and lift
your weight off the skis at the end of each turn.”

“I’m writing as fast as
I can.”

“Just trying to help.”

I half swam, half
climbed back to my skis, and dug them out. Boyd watched with a mixture of
amusement and impatience. When I started skiing again, Boyd and Canfield’s
advice proved sound. Sitting back a little did make the powder easier to
navigate. I tried to stay close behind Boyd, but he soon disappeared. The
others passed me, each finding their own virgin stretch of powder. Soon they
too were gone, leaving only curvy bluish trenches to mark their passage.

I really didn’t mind
being alone. The sun was fully up now, and the sky was the sort of deep,
pollution-free blue you almost never get in the city. Lower on the mountain and
deep in the trees there was less wind and I was beginning to feel a bit warm. I
was surprised at the added effort powder skiing required, but I began to
understand its allure. Floating soundlessly on the nearly invisible skis was
absolutely sublime, although moving at speed without the constant grinding
sound I associated with skiing was just a tad unsettling.