We were somewhere around the Platforms, at the mouth of Garnet Canyon, when the drugs began to take hold.
I remember saying something like, “I feel a bit lightheaded; maybe you should break trail . . .” And suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us and the canyon was full of what looked like huge salamanders, all grumbling and hissing and slithering around us, as we motored toward the West Hourglass Couloir of Nez Perce. And a voice was screaming, “Thirty-three minutes to the Platforms, my fastest time yet!”
Then it was quiet again. My ski partner had taken his hat off and was spreading Power-Gel on his bald spot, to better facilitate the tanning process. “What the hell are you yelling about,” he muttered, staring up at the sun with his eyes closed. “Never mind,” I said as we pulled into the Meadows and our first food break. No point mentioning those salamanders, I thought, cuz the poor bastard will see them soon enough.
It was almost noon, and we still had more than 2,000 vert to go. The vert would be tough. Very soon, I knew, we would both be completely twisted. My backpack looked like an Italian bike racer’s toiletry kit. I had two family-size bottles of human growth hormone, half a salt shaker of crystallized testosterone, five sheets of high powered blotter acid, and a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, aminos, and anabolics . . . and also a Camelbak of Cyto-Max, a pint of Lance Armstrong’s blood, an oxygen tank and two dozen GUs.
The only thing that really worried me were the GUs, cuz there is nothing in the world more helpless and irresponsible and depraved than a man in the depths of a GU binge. And I knew we’d get into that rotten stuff pretty soon. Probably at the bottom of the booter.
“Man, this is the way to travel,” said my bro Al Wonderland. “We’re already down to our base layers and making good time.”
Making good time? You poor fool! I felt out of shape – my legs were pumped full of lactic acid after yesterday’s sub-10 hour round trip on the Grand Teton. Luckily, the snow was softening up nicely and I was really psyched to tag another Teton megaclassic.
At the bottom of the Hourglass we paused for another bite. Was the snow getting too soft? Maybe we should have been there earlier. Maybe we should bail. I shook my fist at the sky. I shouted, “Tell me what to do, Rando Steve!” Then, after a calming half syringe of Lance blood, I had a flash of inspiration. I snorted some testosterone, slipped three hits of acid under my bandanna, Hendrix style, and rallied up the coolie.
I skied this couloir earlier this season and it was heinous, so I was looking for redemption. Luckily, the south southwest winds we’d had in late November, and last July’s graupel storm had left the couloir in primo shape and I figured now would be the time to get some powder turns. If only I’d remembered my skis. I think I left them back down in the Meadows.
I turned to Al, who by now had switched his head with that of a young coyote. I gave him a fine big smile . . . admiring the shape of his skull.
“By the way, I think there’s one thing you should probably understand.”
He stared at me, not blinking. Was he licking his chops?
Can you hear me?” I yelled.
He nodded.
“That’s good,” I said. “Because I want you to know that you’re in good physical shape and you’re beginning to fine-tune your steep skiing technique. A little scary at times, but getting better every couloir nonetheless. I think you’re psyched to be tagging along these days and I can always use good, reliable ski partners…that can also deal with me. Anyway, we’re both going to have to ski this on one ski. It’s the only way to do it. Can you grasp that?”
He nodded again, but his eyes were nervous.
I hung back and let Al do the work breaking trail. He owed me from yesterday on the Big One.
Soon, we got to the top. We took off our crampons and stashed our ice axes, getting ready to ski the goods. I liked the conditions and charged into the chute.
Picking through some thin spots near the top, we eased our way into the crux. I felt like this was a no fall zone, and it gave both and Al and I the shivers. Or maybe that was just the amphetamines kicking in.
We leapfrogged down the couloir, carving ego turns on the way. The snow was very predictable and you could ski it as fast as you wanted…which I did. A constant speed is good for shredding coolies. Avoid those quick bursts of acceleration that drag blood to the back of the brain.
LIVE TO SKI!
Jesus! Did I say that? Or just think it? Was I talking? Did Al hear me? I glanced over at my bro, but he seemed oblivious as he made GS-turns down the canyon, the lights of Las Vegas spread below us in all their spangled finery.
With much gratitude and many apologies to Steve Romeo and the late, great Hunter S. Thompson.
Thanks Dave! Hmmm…I feel like I’ve read this someplace before.
Rando-beewhan say…”Live to Ski!”
O wow it’s like . . . have you ever really looked at my hand?
wow.
I am speechless.
Not visionless.
I told Steadman to find you guys. I told him to look in the Men’s Room at Dornan’s for guys who look like crooked bank tellers on a binge, wearing Cloudveil togs and vomiting in the urinals.
you guys crack me up. oh, speaking of cracks–
Awesome tour Gonzo…how do you do it? Tripping on the Grand one minute and before you know it, one-skiing the hourglass? Your atmospheric! Bravo to another set of coolios in cyberspace!